


Wait Until Dark

by TheWineDarkSea



Series: Secret Agent Man [2]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Minor Character Death, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-03-01 08:33:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 74,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13291107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWineDarkSea/pseuds/TheWineDarkSea
Summary: The fate of the Railroad is on a knife’s edge. One wrong move could destroy everything they’ve been fighting for, but Deacon and Wanderer have always been high risk, high reward gamblers. So they’ll take their chances, come what may.They just didn’t expect to fall so hard, so fast.





	1. Chapter 1

 

“Deacon. Wanderer. The situation room. _Now,_ ” Dez said, and Wanderer felt like she was in one of those detective films she’d liked to watch before the war. This was the part where the intrepid but insubordinate agents got chewed out by the boss.

Well, they’d known it was coming. She and Deacon hadn’t exactly played fair when they’d taken the Crowley job without Desdemona’s blessing. They had showed up at HQ that morning, battered and exhausted, one wounded agent in tow, and then collapsed into bed. That had only bought them a few hours respite before their reckoning.

As Deacon walked past her, he leaned over and said softly into her ear, “Follow my lead.”

Wanderer shut her eyes against the shiver of happiness that low voice sent through her, the feel of his whispered words against her ear. Whatever their last op had sparked between them, this was _not_ the time to let it get to her.

As Deacon and Wanderer entered the room, Dez squared off, facing them with her hands on her hips, legs apart. She looked Wanderer full in the face, then Deacon.

“Want to take a guess why I called you two in here?” she asked.

Deacon opened his mouth, shut it, looked to Wanderer and shrugged. He looked chagrined, but she knew better. He was waiting for Dez to make the first move so he could get a better read on her.

Wanderer followed his lead and kept her mouth shut, but it was _hard._ In another life, Dez might have made an excellent CEO. She made people want to please her, and she made it clear that you did _not_ want to piss her off.

Dez singled her out as the weak link. “Wanderer?” She asked in that no-nonsense voice, impatient, expectant, demanding an answer.

A day ago, Wanderer might have given in. But Deacon had recently baptized her into the world of undercover—a trial by fire known as Pretty Boy Crowley. So instead of spilling her guts, she did bashful. She rubbed the back of her neck, shifted from foot to foot.

“Um…” Wanderer trailed off, casting a glance at Deacon like she was looking for help. He held up his hands and took a half step away from her: _don’t look at me, partner._

Dez caught on that they weren’t going to break easy. She said, “A little bird told me you two worked the Crowley job. After I explicitly told you not to.”

After a brief pause, Deacon waded into the fray. He said, “But I thought _I_ was your little bird. Dez… is there someone else?”

Dez gave him a long look. She didn’t snap at him or talk down to him like other agents did when they were fed up with his bullshit. She just fixed him in that level stare until he talked himself out, or she gave in.

Deacon backed off a little. “Okay, but you didn’t _explicitly_ tell us not to. You just said you wouldn’t assign us to the job, and the agent on the case would call the shots. And he decided to let us have the op.”

“Ah, of course he did. Maybe we should call him in to corroborate that story?”

Deacon and Wanderer exchanged a look. She knew how he would spin this conversation later. He’d tell Guy the two of them had taken Dez’s wrath on his behalf. Guy might buy it, too, but Wanderer knew there was no way Dez was going to lay the blame on a wounded agent. They needed to tread carefully.

Deacon said, “I’m sure he’d be happy to, but he’s a little… busy right now.”

Dez raised her eyebrows. “He’s recovering from surgery.”

Deacon refused to be guilt-tripped. “Like I said. Now, I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it when he’s back at 100%, but allow me to give you the highlights.”

He held up his hands, readying his pitch: _Now, picture this_ … “Wanderer sweet talks her way into Crowley’s base, he gives up the kidnapped synths to her the first chance he gets, and we all march out safe and sound. Except for Guy almost getting blown up by a mine, it was practically boring. Easy as pie.”

Dez looked to Wanderer. Before the war, detectives had used the “good cop, bad cop” routine to work a suspect. Since the two of them had teamed up, Deacon had developed his own routine for working Dez: honest cop, bullshit cop. Wanderer took her cue.

“That’s… not exactly how it went down. But yeah, we got four synths out unharmed. They’re on their way to a safehouse now.”

“Four?” Desdemona asked, her voice softening. There were a million ways for an op to go wrong, a million ways a synth could meet death in the Commonwealth. Saving four at once was no small victory, especially when she’d only expected to save one.

“Yeah,” Deacon said. “Including A9-55. He was quite the asset. You might want to have someone give him the Railroad sales pitch before you shuttle him out of the ’Wealth.”

“Hm,” Dez said. It usually wasn’t Railroad policy to recruit synths—agents crossed paths with the Institute far too often, and it was bad for morale when the Institute recaptured escapees. But Glory had been leaning on them lately to let more synths in.

“Dez, the guy was a great shot. Had a good head under pressure, too. He’d make a good agent,” Deacon said.

Dez nodded. “We’ll send a recruiter to the new Randolph, see if A9 is up for it.”

“You’re welcome. Now, if you feel like giving Wanderer a promotion, I wouldn’t dissuade you.”

“Nice try. Deacon, you’ll be working intel under my direction for two weeks. Wanderer, you’re suspended from missions for that time, and you don’t leave the Church without permission.”

“Aw c’mon, grounded! Are you taking away our allowance, too?” Deacon said, but he was grinning at Wanderer. She guessed that meant things were going well, but it certainly _felt_ like they were being punished.

Dez gave Deacon that stare again. This time he didn’t back down.

“It’s okay to thank us, Dez. We won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

Dez actually _smiled_ at that. A small one, there and then gone, but still. Deacon could work wonders; Wanderer hadn’t thought Dez _ever_ smiled.

“ _That’s_ not going to happen. But—unofficially—you two did good work,” Dez said.

Wanderer’s mouth fell open in surprise before she could catch herself. Deacon clapped a hand on her shoulder, and gently lifted her chin with his other hand, closing her mouth.

“Don’t mind her, Dez. She just doesn’t know how to take a compliment from you yet.”

Then Dez _smirked_ at her. Wanderer realized suddenly that Dez had a mischievous side, buried under layers of professionalism and grit. Of course she did, or else she and Deacon would never have got along so well.

“I don’t remember complimenting anyone, Deacon. Officially, you’re both on probation for irresponsible behavior. I trust you can see yourselves out.”

Wanderer decided not to push her luck. She nodded to Dez and turned to leave, but Deacon didn’t follow.

“I’ll catch up with you later, partner,” he said. She caught Dez crossing her arms out of the corner of her eye, readying herself for another round of verbal sparring.

He was up to something. Something that had to do with her, she could sense it. But it was no use trying to pry info out of Deacon before he was good and ready to give it.

She glanced questioningly at him, and he grinned confidently back at her. Whatever conversation he and Dez were going to have about her, she knew Deacon would be in her corner.

“Later, then,” she said, and resisted the urge to look back over her shoulder at the two of them as she left the room.

Back in the catacombs, she sought out Doc Carrington. By the time they’d reached HQ, Guy hadn’t been in great shape. He’d been hurt helping her and Deacon out of a tight spot, so she wanted to make sure he’d be all right.

Carrington was in the medbay, tinkering with… something. Wanderer was a quick study, but she was still miles behind Carrington and Tinker Tom when it came to machines.

He didn’t glance at her as she walked up. She leaned against the wall nearby and tried to judge whether he was ignoring her because he simply didn’t want to talk to her, or if he was truly absorbed in his work and it would be dangerous to interrupt him. She’d established an uneasy rapport with Carrington, but he still didn’t seem to like her much. He didn’t seem to like _anyone_ much _._ She decided to take her chances.

“Hey, Carrington. How’s Guy?” she asked.

He didn’t look up from his work. “He’ll live. No thanks to you.”

Wanderer smiled. Carrington got under Deacon’s skin, but she appreciated the doctor’s incorrigible surliness.

“That’s wonderful news. Great job!” she said. He stopped working and looked up to glare at her. Okay, she had to admit, it was _a little_ fun irritating him.

Carrington pointedly picked up his project and strode away without another glance at her. As he moved away, Wanderer slid past him into the sick bay.

Guy was lying on one of the mattresses in the corner of the catacombs they’d designated for the wounded. He turned his head as she peeked in. His eyes looked a little glazed – Carrington had probably given him some pain meds—but he was otherwise alert.

“The synths made it to the safehouse?” he asked her.

She nodded. “Yeah. Drummer Boy let us know about an hour ago. Your team all made it there, too.”

Guy closed his eyes, letting out a relieved breath. “Good.”

She sat on the floor next to him. “I stopped at the store, but they didn’t have a card and a flower basket for ‘I’m sorry I stole your mission and nearly got you killed.’”

Guy met her eyes. His mind was working slowly thanks to the drugs, and it took him a minute to catch on she was joking. When he did, he scowled. “Careful, you’ve been spending too much time with Deacon. His snark has rubbed off.”

She smiled. “How do you know I’m not naturally snarky?”

“I’ve read your file,” he said matter-of-factly.

That gave her pause. She wasn’t aware her _file_ was something that agents like Guy had access to. She hadn’t actually known they had a file on her. Apparently, Dez had wanted the high-ranking HQ agents to know who they were dealing with when she’d bought Wanderer on board.

She told Guy, “Hate to break it to you, but I’m pretty sure Deacon wrote my profile. Which means it’s at least 60% bullshit.”

Guy frowned and gave a feeble headshake. “Even Deacon wouldn’t lie on an official report.”

Wanderer raised her eyebrows. _Oh, buddy. He absolutely would_. But that probably wasn’t prudent to say out loud. Guy read it on her expression anyway.

“Ugh.” He made a face. “He’s such an asshole.”

Wanderer laughed. She hadn’t been Deacon’s biggest fan either when they’d first fell in together, but now… now there was no one she’d rather have at her side.

She told Guy, “Well, I’m glad you’re starting to sound like yourself again, anyway.”

“Yeah… Look, I hope you know you don’t need to apologize to me. Tell Deacon he doesn’t owe me anything, either. I know you two saved my team’s lives back there.”

“Hey, we do what we can. Did the Doc say how long you’ll be out for?”

“A week, maybe two. No more than that, I hope. Recovery is the worst. Boring as hell, and there’s hardly any privacy at HQ.” He sighed and closed his eyes. “Times like this I miss the Switchboard something awful. We really had it made there.”

Wanderer nodded. “First real job I ran for the Railroad was recovery at the Switchboard with Deacon. I saw what was left of it. Must have been a real nice place in its day.”

“What was left of it,” Guy repeated in a pained voice, and Wanderer cursed herself for not choosing her words more carefully. Guy cleared his throat. “Glad I wasn’t with you for that op. Deacon acts like nothing gets to him, but… that can’t have been easy, seeing the Switchboard like that.”

Wanderer remembered how Deacon had gone solemn around the bodies of the agents he’d known, how they’d had to leave them to rot because they hadn’t had time for anything but the mission. How Gen 1’s had trashed and infested the place he’d called home, making it impossible even to recover the bodies of his dead friends.

She hadn’t known Deacon well at the time. She’d been too much a stranger to give comfort without him taking it as pity. But now, looking back, it hurt to think about what must have been going on inside his head—and how he’d had to go through it alone.

Carrington walked by and did a double take when he saw Wanderer sitting in the sick bay.

He said, “It’s time for you to move along. This isn’t a hospital; we don’t keep visiting hours.”

“She’s not doing any harm, Doc,” Guy said.

“I don’t recall asking _you_ ,” Carrington snapped.

Guy gave an exasperated sigh and fell silent. Wanderer smiled at him and said, “Thanks for bailing us out back there, Guy. Get well soon and all that.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said.

Wanderer got up and left before Carrington could toss her out. She wandered around HQ, trying to guess what Dez and Deacon were talking about now.

“Hey, newbie!” Glory called to her, beckoning Wanderer over with the lit cigarette in her hand.

Wanderer had been with the Railroad just over four months, but she was still HQ’s newest recruit. She hadn’t yet been able to shake all the pet names that came along with the position.

Glory was lounging against a brick wall by the shooting range. As Wanderer approached, she plucked the cigarette from Glory's fingers and took a drag. Glory made an irritated grunt in protest, but didn’t try to stop her.

“You know, newbies at HQ used to be well-behaved before you came along,” she said.

“Well-behaved, huh? You must have hated them,” Wanderer said, leaning against the wall next to Glory and waggling the cigarette at her.

Glory smiled. She gave Wanderer a playful shove, and a sudden pang of homesickness hit her. She missed her brother. Before the bombs, they hadn’t seen each other in months; he’d just moved to New York with his wife and kids…. and they were all two hundred years dead.

Glory had noticed her go suddenly quiet and faraway. She said, “Heard you just got back from your renegade job. Everything go according to whatever wacky plan Deacon pulled out of his ass?”

“More or less,” Wanderer said, grateful for the distraction. She took one last pull of the cigarette and handed it back to Glory.

“And Dez read you two the riot act for skipping town?” Glory asked, taking the cigarette.

“Not exactly. But I am grounded for two weeks.”

Glory scoffed. “Damn, you got off _easy._ If I tried to pull shit like that, she would have read me the riot act. She thinks I’m a hothead.”

“Huh. Wonder what gave her that impression.”

Glory took a long pull of the cigarette and gave Wanderer that unique, friendly glare that she had. She blew puff of smoke into Wanderer’s face. “Whatever. I’m just sayin’ I could use a two week vacation.”

Wanderer waved the smoke away. “Glory, you know you’d go insane with nothing to do at HQ for two weeks.”

Glory shrugged. “Tell you what. To make you feel better, I’ll make sure to tell you about all the fun I’ve been having whenever I make a pit stop at HQ.”

“You _jerk_.”

“Hey, it’s so you can live vicariously. I’m doing you a solid.”

Wanderer shoved her jokingly, which turned out to be a grave mistake. Glory had her in a headlock in less than a second, and mussed up her hair for good measure while she had Wanderer at her mercy.

She tried to shift her weight, put Glory off balance, tried to find a weakness in her hold. But—of course—there was none. Wanderer was left flailing like a helpless puppy. It was kind of embarrassing, really, because Glory wasn’t about to let up anytime soon. She liked to rub her victories in your face.

Glory leaned back against the wall and started smoking lazily again, not winded at all, Wanderer still tucked under her arm.

“ _Glory_!” Wanderer protested. Glory laughed and finally let her free.

“I never learn,” Wanderer said, running a hand through her hair and trying to make it decent again. She always felt a little invincible the day after a job well done. A minute squaring off against the Railroad’s angel of death had dispelled that notion quick.

“Jeez, you’re still terrible at hand-to-hand. You should let me show you the ropes sometime, for real,” Glory said.

“I’m… kind of scared to take sparring lessons from you, to be honest,” Wanderer said.

“Quit sweet-talking me. It won’t get you anywhere,” Glory grinned.

Just then Deacon walked out of the situation room and paused, scanning the headquarters. Looking for _her,_ Wanderer realized with a warm flare of happiness.

Glory noticed, too. “Better get your boy before he gets into trouble. _Again_. You can’t leave that one on his own for five minutes.” She shook her head.

Wanderer chuckled. “You know, he says the same thing about you.” She pushed off the wall and called to Deacon, “Hey!” and his head whipped around in her direction.

The smile that lit his face when he saw her nearly stopped her in her tracks. A man hadn’t smiled at her like that in a long time—like just the sight of her made his heart full, like he wanted nothing more than to make her laugh, to hear her voice, to hold her close.

Deacon put an arm around her shoulders, tilting his head toward hers conspiratorially as he said, “Now, tell me what you think of this…” and Wanderer couldn’t picture a single place she’d rather be right now than these decrepit, musty catacombs—no group of people she’d rather throw her lot in with than this ragtag family.

It was a funny thing, but somewhere along the way, the Railroad had become her home.


	2. Chapter 2

“Deacon.”

“Desdemona.”

Dez was giving him a hard stare. “You better believe that I’m talking with Guy later. And if he says you forced his hand, you and Wanderer will be in for a lot more than a slap on the wrist.”

“Hey, don’t you worry, boss. I’ve dotted my i’s and crossed my t’s on this one. Honest.”

“Except for the part where you two went behind my back and took a job I told you to stay clear of,” Dez said.

“Well yeah, except for that part.”

Dez sighed. “Unless you want a lecture—and I have one prepared—I suggest you tell me why you’re really still here.”

“I do want to hear that lecture, actually, but maybe later. Right now I figure you might like to know how Crowley was finding all those synths he’d taken hostage.”

That look of shock on Dez’s face, with an undertone of pure satisfaction, it just never got old.

“What do you have?” she asked him.

He took out a device that looked a little like a handheld Geiger counter—a little bit of irony, that—and tossed it to her.

“My guess is, Crowley found it on an Institute scout looking for AWOL synths,” he said. Coursers couldn’t just stroll around the Commonwealth without attracting notice; so the Institute often sent a forerunner to confirm their intel before they brought out the big guns. Usually, their scouts were careful and competent, but even the Institute ran into bad luck in the Wasteland.

Dez turned over the device. “If Tom can figure out how this tracks synths, we can improve our cloaking for runaways. This is excellent work, Deacon.”

“Hey, don’t thank me. Wanderer found it.” She hadn’t. But hey, a little white lie was man’s best friend. Well, Deacon’s best friend, anyway. “Did I mention that she got Crowley to lead us right into his lair?”

“You did. And he never suspected a thing?”

“He bought her cover hook, line, and sinker.”

Dez whistled low. “So she’s a natural at undercover, too. You have good instincts, I’ll give you that.”

“Thanks, but I think both of us already knew my instincts are fantastic.”

The Dez death stare. Not his favorite look, but it was better than that one where she ground her teeth and flared her nostrils, like she had when she’d called him and Wanderer into the situation room. And it was important that he annoyed Dez at least a _little_ bit, or else she got suspicious fast.

But Dez was getting too familiar with his tricks. She looked down at the device in her hands, then carefully up at him, like she was starting to connect the dots. She set the tracker down on the table.

“What’s your angle, Deacon?” she asked.

He held up his hands. “No angle. Just doing my humble part to bring freedom to all synthkind.”

“This is about the Institute op, isn’t it?”

“Well… since you’ve brought it up, now might be a good time to decide who we’re sending in.”

Dez gave a frustrated sigh. She took a pack of cigarettes from her jacket pocket and shook one loose. Deacon was ready with a lighter.

She glanced at him suspiciously, but he just shot her his winningest smile. _No angle, I’m just a helpful guy._ Eventually she lit her cigarette on the flame.

She took a long pull and closed her eyes, the tension going out of her shoulders. Now they were getting somewhere.

“So, you know I like Wanderer for the job,” he said.

Dez didn’t answer right away. She regarded the cigarette between her fingers for a few moments. Then she said, “It’s interesting. I can’t help but notice you’ve conveniently cut Carrington out of this discussion.”

“Hey, Carrington’s arguments haven’t changed. And I just landed some new ammo.”

“ _One_ successful undercover op. And that’s supposed to convince me?”

“One _with us_. But she’s been in the game a long time.” Deacon ticked off her personas on his fingers, “Minuteman officer, private detective. Not to mention all the small cons we’ve run in the field the last four months. Dez, what was the point of bringing her on board if we’re not even gonna send her in?”

“She’s done well, but… I’m not sure if we can trust her with this. There’s too many unknowns in this op.”

“I know it’s a big ask, especially since she’s only been with us a short time, and her connection to the Institute is… complicated…” He was sidling up to the heart of the thing, giving Dez the chance to voice her fears, without having Carrington here to stoke them.

Dez took the bait. She said, “That’s the issue, Deacon. If I send her in, I need to be sure that she won’t compromise the Railroad if she has to choose between us and her son. And I’m not sold on that. Are you?”

Deacon had put his life—had put _synths_ lives—in Wanderer’s hands more times than he could count. He’d vouch for her on _anything_. Except for this. If Wanderer had to choose—the Railroad, or Shaun—would she choose them?

She was no traitor. But was she a revolutionary? Deacon wasn’t sure she was ready to make the cause her idol, to offer up any sacrifice it demanded.

As badly as he wanted her for the Railroad, a part of him hoped she wasn’t ready, and never would be. Because once an agent cut that final tether to a normal life and gave themselves up, heart and soul, they fought for the Railroad until it killed them. And he didn’t know if he could bear it—watching Wanderer burn out like that. Like he would one day.

But he wasn’t about to say any of that to Dez. So he said instead, “She won’t sell us out.” He might not know what she’d choose, but he was willing to bet she’d find a way to avoid making the choice at all. It wasn’t easy to back her into a corner.

“Even if they use the boy as leverage?” Dez asked, sensing his bluff.

“Dez, she’s our _only_ chance at success. I really believe that,” Deacon said. There was no half-truth there. Anyone else they sent in would be dead—or worse—within the hour.

Dez was quiet, taking another drag of her cigarette as she thought that over.

“It’s your call, boss,” he said tactfully.

He wasn’t going to tell her everything he was really thinking: that her caution had kept the Railroad alive for years, but now it was killing them. That they’d lost too much at the Switchboard, and if they didn’t start gaining major ground, they’d loose everything. That she was too scared of getting more good people killed to take the big risks they needed.

He couldn’t say that to her outright. Not with Carrington waiting to bitch about her “lack of leadership” to every new HQ recruit that walked in the door. Dez needed to know that someone was on her side, no matter what. And in a line of work where trust was more rare than an ice cold Nuka Quantum, Dez trusted Deacon. So it was up to him to be that someone.

But the fact remained that the Railroad needed to pick up the pace, and soon. So he did what he did best: he went in subtle, giving all the players a gentle push—inch by inch—until they ended up right where he needed them.

He said, “Tom will have the Relay up and running in a matter of weeks. Days, maybe. I know we don’t have a ton of intel on the Institute, but she’ll still need _some_ time for briefing before we send her in.”

Dez raised her eyebrows.

“You know, the agent on the op… whoever she ends up being,” Deacon said.

“We’ll continue this discussion later.”

Well, she hadn’t said no. He was one step closer. The next time he and Dez had this chat, she was going to assign Wanderer to the Institute job.

The truth was they didn’t have a lot of options—and they had only one good option. He’d make Dez see that.

He gave Dez a salute that was only a _little_ sarcastic and left her alone with P.A.M.

Deacon looked for Wanderer when he was back in the church catacombs. He heard her shout, _“Hey!”_ and couldn’t keep the smile from his face when he saw her, relaxed and happy now that they were rested up and safely back at home.

He knew the look on his face was too open, that it gave away too much. But boy, it felt good to have just _one_ unguarded moment, to see the way her face lit up in return when she met his gaze.

He put an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close, and the gladness that bloomed in his chest at having her so near felt warm and welcome and _right_.

But it was also bad, bad news.

Deacon knew better than anyone that there was no good time to let your guard down. The Wasteland—and the Institute—was just waiting to gobble up the next sucker who started to think, hey, maybe things weren’t that bad, maybe they could take it easy for a while and just _enjoy_ their goddamn life for once. Deacon wasn’t planning to fall for _that._

But Wanderer had a way lately of disarming him with the slightest thing. With a mischievous look, or her sly smile, or, hell, just standing around joking with Glory and looking so very _Wanderer._

And ever since the Crowley job he’d found himself _wanting_ to let those walls slide down.

Every success had a cost. The Crowley job had given him the leverage he needed to send Wanderer to the Institute, but it was going to haunt him forever with the taste of her kiss, and the feel of her body against his.

Deacon should be stronger than this. He should be able to make things between them go back to normal, like they were _before_. But his gut was telling him that he and Wanderer would have to go through hell to deliver the Railroad, and maybe, _maybe_ , they could have just one fleeting moment of happiness together before the long night.

Part of him knew that was the way an agent thought when he was starting to slip. When he began to let emotions and wishes make his decisions, instead of using instincts and intel. Another part—the part he kept trying to push away—figured, what the hell. Why not try?

They were living on borrowed time anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

In the end, their probation lasted less than a week. Thank _God_ for that. Wanderer had been slowly going mad on her own at HQ.

Once, when she and Deacon had been scouting an old office building, he’d asked her, _So, people seriously spent nine hours a day in places like this?_ like it was one of the great mysteries of the Old World, and she’d just shrugged, because it hadn’t been _that_ difficult.

But, damn. For days she’d been holed up in HQ, sifting through the Railroad’s records on prewar points of interest to see if she could fill in any gaps, and the whole time she couldn’t stop thinking about everything she could be doing right now, everything that was happening without her, how slowly time was passing. She’d lost the knack for sitting still.

Luckily, the Railroad couldn’t afford to be down a heavy with Guy still healing up. And she had a feeling that Dez’s attempt to keep Deacon on a short leash had backfired, and he’d been using the opportunity to lobby for their speedy return to combat missions.

Deacon had been in and out of HQ for the past week, running odd jobs for Dez. Wanderer was a little jealous. She was _actually_ grounded, but Deacon was too essential to sit on the bench even for a short time. And—who was she kidding—she missed him when he was away.

It made her apprehensive about their return to the field, this new thing between them. The electric spark that shot through her whenever their eyes met or their hands touched. She knew it could trip them up on the job if they weren’t careful.

She wondered if Deacon could feel it, too, that magnetic pull between them that had their bodies drifting together like it was some law of nature.

She was sitting with Glory, playing Caravan before they both turned in for the night, when Deacon sauntered back into HQ. He pulled a chair over to them and sat, propping his legs up in the table and scattering their cards and caps. He let out a long, contented sigh.

Glory _shoved_ him off the table, sending him tottering on the back legs of the chair for a moment before he found his balance.

“It’s cool,” she said stiffly. “It’s not like we were _obviously_ playing cards or anything.”

Deacon didn’t pay her any mind. He was grinning at Wanderer. “Hey, partner. Feels like I haven’t seen you in _days_. You miss me?”

“It’s only been about ten hours, Deacon,” Wanderer said. Though it _had_ felt like days.

“Huh,” he said, frowning like he really had lost track of the time.

“What have you been up to?” she asked, gathering up the cards.

He waved a hand in the air. “Oh, you know. Stuff. Very secret, very important. Hey, did I tell you I finally got a Ponyboy on the roster? I think you owe me fifty caps.”

“Bullshit.”

Deacon grinned. “Not this time. We’re running a job with him tomorrow. Now I’ve got a new code name to get into the ranks, and I’ve upped the ante.”

“Do I even want to know?”

“I’m thinking: Fancy Lad.”

She snorted in surprise. “No way are you convincing someone to take that one.”

“Them’s fightin’ words, Wanderer. A hundred caps says I can.”

Glory said, “Take the bet, Wanderer. I’m not working with someone named after a snack cake.”

Deacon said, “You know, I’ve found that Wasteland food is actually a gold mine for code names: Food Paste, Pork n’ Beans, Squirrel Bits. They’re great, right?”

“If you recruit any of those, I’ll eat Tinker Tom’s overalls,” Glory said.

“Glory, stand down. You’re about to make a bet with Deacon. Those _never_ go your way. Trust me,” Wanderer said.

Deacon grinned. “Too late! She already did. I hope you like the taste of sweaty denim, Glory. I bet it’s only a _little_ better than the taste of defeat.”

Glory groaned at the joke.

“It was nice knowing you,” Wanderer told her.

Deacon said, “It wasn’t a very considerate bet, Glory. I think Tom only has one pair of overalls.”

“You two are such _dorks,_ ” Glory said, scowling. She gave Deacon’s chair a sharp kick, sending him scooting closer to Wanderer.

The three of them were giddy, ready to laugh and joke at anything, and they weren’t alone—all of HQ was abuzz. Tinker Tom’s work on the Molecular Relay was almost done. It was only a matter of time before the Railroad infiltrated the Institute.

Even at HQ, not a lot of agents knew all the details about the Relay. But they knew enough to make the good cheer in the air contagious. They’d noticed the spring in Dez’s step, or the way Deacon kept joking with everyone like he was slightly manic.

They wanted it so badly—to finally, _finally,_ get the drop on those Institute bastards.

To Wanderer, it felt like the holidays—the cheery weeks before Christmas where any miracle seemed possible. But she still hadn’t heard anything about who would be assigned to the Institute job, and her window of opportunity was closing fast.

It kept her up at night, wondering if she’d made the right choice. She’d left the Minutemen a long time ago, and Sturges didn’t know Institute tech like Tom did, but she _knew_ Preston would have agreed to let her go in if she’d asked him. She hadn’t been able to get Dez to agree to the same.

But Dez had promised to help Shaun if she could, and the Railroad knew the Institute like no other faction in the ’Wealth. She’d thought they were her best hope. And she’d believed she could convince them that she was the best agent to send in.

She kept telling herself that Deacon knew how badly she wanted this job, and he’d promised her they’d find Shaun together. If _he_ couldn’t convince Dez to give her the job, no one could.

Well, the die was cast. Now all she could do was wait.

***

Deacon woke her early the next morning.

“Rise and shine,” he said, tossing a packed supply bag on top of her.

Wanderer groaned loudly and rolled off the mattress, shoving the bag away. She sat up and stretched while he crossed his arms and tapped his foot impatiently.

“Time’s a-wastin,’” he said.

She said dryly, “We should get into trouble with Dez more often. Probation has made you downright chipper.”

He grinned at her and stopped tapping his foot. “It’s not the probation that has me chipper.”

“So, what is it?”

“I guess it’ll be forever a mystery,” he said airily.

She sighed. He wasn’t in the mood for giving straight answers this morning. Oddly enough, that meant he was in a _very_ good mood.

She told him, “I’ll meet you outside. It’s too early for you to be this happy, and it’s making me grumpy.”

He did as she asked, only giving her a little hassle before he left. She sluggishly pulled on her Railroad heavy coat, shouldered the bag Deacon had prepped for her, and grabbed some mole rat jerky for breakfast. Days like this, she’d kill for a hot, fresh cup of coffee.

She caught up with Deacon outside the Church. He was leaning against the wall outside waiting for her, hands in his pockets. He was wearing a greaser jacket over his white T-shirt today, and had on his pompadour wig. His hunting rifle was leaning against the wall beside him. When he caught sight of her, he picked it up by its strap and slung it over his shoulder.

“Looking good, boss! Really good. You do something new with your hair?” he said.

She shook her head. She was wearing sunglasses, too. He always made some smartass comment whenever she did. But after nearly a week underground in the Church, she needed them. The sun felt fucking _bright_.

“Not very talkative this morning, huh?”

“It’s your fault. You’ve made me night person,” she said.

Deacon smiled. “Oops.”

She and Deacon instinctively stuck to the shadows as they traveled to their checkpoint, hugging the walls of the ruined buildings and winding through alleys when they had the option. Staying out of sight—and out of danger—was second nature to her now.

“So what’s this job, anyway?” she asked.

“Ticon has a new runner. We’re meeting him near the Plaza and escorting him there.”

Wanderer scoffed. “Doesn’t sound like a job for us. Is Dez putting us back in the field with training wheels?”

“Damn, you are grumpy. I _asked_ for this job,” Deacon said.

_“Why?”_

He shot her a sly grin. She didn’t know how she’d missed it before: he was up to something.

“You want me to meet this new runner… Ponyboy?” she asked.

“Maybe. Or maybe you’ve already met him.”

It took a moment for the penny to drop. When it did, she smiled as wide as Deacon. She punched him in the shoulder. “Ha! A9’s the new runner? That’s great!”

He rubbed his arm. “Ah—why are you punching me? You’ve been spending too much time with Glory, haven’t you? I knew it was a bad idea to coop you up at HQ.”

Wanderer just grinned back at him. She hadn’t seen A9 since the Crowley job a week ago, and hadn’t known he’d accepted Dez’s offer to join the Railroad. It was hard sometimes, helping synths flee the Commonwealth—facing death alongside them—only to disappear completely from their lives and memories. But that was the job. She was glad A9 had decided to stay.

She and Deacon walked the rest of the way in companionable silence. She knew this had been a surprise for A9—Ponyboy—too, because as soon as he saw them a surprised, pleased smile broke over his face.

“Deacon! Wanderer!” He clasped Deacon’s hand, then hers.

“Welcome to the Railroad, Ponyboy,” she said.

Deacon said, “So, runner, huh? Congrats. I’ll be honest, though. After seeing you shoot, I had you pegged as a heavy for sure.”

Ponyboy glanced away, smile fading, and rubbed the back of his neck. “I know I’m good at it, but… I don’t like killing all that much. But keeping out of sight, defending myself if I need to, I can do that.”

Deacon said, “I like your style, pal. They show you the ropes at Randolph?”

Ponyboy nodded. “I trained with their runner,” he said, glancing at Wanderer. “I think she’s your biggest fan, actually. She couldn’t stop talking about you.”

“Aw, look. You’re making her blush,” Deacon said, and the fondness in his voice made her blush even _more_.

“She made me tell her all about the Crowley job. Several times,” Ponyboy said.

“I hope you told her about what a badass _you_ were on that op. It’s never too early to start cultivating your legend, you know,” Deacon said.

“Huh,” Ponyboy said noncommittally, but he was blushing under Deacon’s praise.

Ponyboy was still fairly new to the Commonwealth, but he was naturally level headed, and he had good survival instincts. He stayed alert and light on his feet as they made their way through downtown Boston, but he didn’t jump at the sudden bursts of gunfire in the distance, or flinch when they had to put down a pair of wild mongrels. He was in better shape than she’d been in her first few weeks in the Wasteland.

They were careful to make sure they weren’t followed as they entered Ticonderoga’s first floor lobby. At this level, the safehouse looked like any other picked-over abandoned building. Debris and churned-up concrete littered the floor. Wanderer started for the elevator, picking her way around the debris so the place didn’t look like it had regular foot traffic.

Now that they were no longer out in the open, Deacon started chatting again. He was in a mood today—talkative and energetic, even more so than usual. He seemed… really happy. She loved it.

Deacon asked Ponyboy, “So, how’s Mr. Tims and the Randolph gang these days, anyway?”

“They’re great. Have a lot to say about you two, actually,” Ponyboy said.

Wanderer glanced over her shoulder at them. “What do they say?”

Deacon pulled down his shades to give her a patronizing look. “Never ask that. It gives them all the power.” He slid his shades back up and shook his head at her. “Amateur move, boss.”

“What? I’m curious. And Ponyboy isn’t like us, Deacon: He’s honest.” Honest by Railroad standards, anyway.

Ponyboy smirked. “Word is, you two are indestructible. If the stories are to be believed, anyway.”

“All the stories about me are true,” Deacon said with a straight face. “Every single one.” He put an arm around Ponyboy’s shoulders. “Have you heard about the time I spent in Capitol Wasteland? Now there’s a tale.”

“No, tell me more,” Ponyboy said, catching Wanderer’s eye and winking. She smiled back.

Wanderer trailed after them as Deacon regaled Ponyboy with his story. She slid off her sunglasses and tucked them away when they entered the elevator. Deacon’s chatter trailed off once it rose from the ground floor.

“Anyone else feel like we’ve been in here a _really_ long time?” he asked after a few seconds.

Wanderer was leaning against the back wall. “Almost there, pal,” she said.

She trusted Ticon’s elevator more than most—the Railroad did regular maintenance—but she didn’t like the loud hum and clang echoing in the elevator shaft over their heads. After walking for almost an hour in the hot sun, however, she was willing to risk death to skip the fifty flights of stairs to the safehouse.

As soon as the elevator doors slid open, Deacon started talking again. “Good old Ticon. High Rise is one of the best. You’ll like it here, Ponyboy.”

“I like it already,” he said as they stepped into Ticon’s main floor.

High Rise strode toward them. “My man, Deacon” he said, taking Deacon’s hand. “Hey, Wanderer, always good to have you here.” He gave her a quick hug.

“Hey, High Rise,” she said, smiling. High Rise had a gift for making people feel welcome and wanted. It was the reason Dez had put him in charge of the Railroad’s largest safehouse. He’d made Ticon a place where synths could feel like people again—not like some hunted animal—on their way out of the Commonwealth.

“And you must be our new runner. Glad to have you,” he said, clapping Ponyboy on the back. He beckoned him farther in and started showing him around. Wanderer slipped away while they talked.

Ticonderoga safehouse was one of her favorite places in post-Apocalypse Boston. Somehow, the Railroad had found an old penthouse whose large windows hadn’t been blown out by the nuclear blast, or shattered by later disasters over the course of two hundred years. They’d hung up heavy black curtains to pull over the windows after dark, but this morning the curtains were pulled aside, and Ticon was filled with light.

She perched on the railing on the second tier of the wide central stairway, leaning against the window to look out. It was grimy around the edges—they hadn’t been properly cleaned on the outside in roughly two centuries—but it still offered a spectacular view of the Commonwealth.

In the distance, the clouds flashed green as a rad storm rolled in from Ground Zero. From here—if she didn’t look too close—the Commonwealth looked peaceful and still below her. No raiders in sight, no _tatatatat_ of gunfire. No looming threat of death. Just the peaceful, shattered buildings—as if she and the other Railroad agents were the only people left in world.

It felt like something was about to happen.

She could sense it on the horizon, coming toward them to shatter the good spirits that had pervaded the Railroad for the past week. This calm wouldn’t last. It was only the long breath before a deep dive into the unknown.

Deacon called from behind her, “Okay, I can’t take it anymore. Wanderer, would you _please_ quit leaning against the glass? Those windows are antiques, you know. And maybe no one’s told you—but the windows are the _worst_ part about Ticon.”

She turned. Deacon was sitting on the main floor below with High Rise and Ponyboy, and a cluster of other agents who had gathered around the mismatched collection of chairs and sofas. A haze of cigarette smoke was wafting over the first floor as several agents lit up. Ponyboy was one of them—it hadn’t taken him long pick up that particular Wasteland habit.

High Rise said slyly, “Before you joined us, Deacon hardly ever came up here.”

“Now, that’s just not _true,_ ” Deacon protested. High Rise shot her a look and raised his eyebrows, _who are you gonna believe?_

Wanderer said, “I think the windows are the best part.”

High Rise grinned. “Me too,” he said.

Wanderer left her spot on the railing to join the others below. She grabbed a Nuka Cola from the cooler and perched on the back of the sofa where High Rise was sitting.

“Wanderer, don’t wreck my couch,” High Rise said. He swept her legs out from under her, sending her sliding down the back of the couch until she landed on the seat cushion beside him with a soft “ _Oof_.”

“Hey!” she said, giving his legs a playful kick.

“Sorry, house rules. You wouldn’t believe how much trouble it was to find a nice couch. Not to mention getting it up here.”

Deacon said, “It was worth it, my friend. This place is classier than the Rex.”

“I don’t know about that,” High Rise said, but he smiled the quiet, pleased smile that Deacon could always bring out in people when he wanted to.

Agents didn’t like working with Deacon in the field. He played his cards too close to his chest and had a tendency to keep others in the dark, making sure that he was the only one who could see how all the pieces of his plan fit together. And he _never_ felt obliged to tell the truth, about anything. But when he was like this, chummy and outgoing, always ready with the right thing to say, most people enjoyed his company. Deacon in small doses was a riot; Deacon every day was a migraine.

That was his reputation around the Railroad, anyway. But Wanderer would happily spend every day of the rest of her life with that man.

Hold on, now—when had she started thinking like _that_ again?

People didn’t make plans for _the rest of their lives_ in the Commonwealth. There was no _rest of your life._ There was only this hour, this day, and then—if you survived the night—there was the next day.

High Rise cleared his throat and stood up. The pleasant hum of conversation died, and someone turned down the radio playing in the background.

“Welcome to Ticon, Ponyboy. May she be a good home to you,” he said. As he sat back down he asked, “Have anything you’d like to say?”

“Yeah, actually. Thanks.” Ponyboy tapped his cigarette on an ashtray, watched the smoke rise for a moment. He said, “There’s people I left behind who risked their lives to help me get out of the Institute, who made being inside bearable. I think about it every day—how they deserve a better life than they’ve got. I hope I live to thank them. But, if not, at least I know some of you will…” he trailed off into the stunned silence around him. “Is, uh… is that the sort of thing I was supposed to say?”

Wanderer and High Rise exchanged a look. They’d never heard a synth talk like that before. A lot of them had spotty memories after the Institute security wipes, depending on what their jobs were inside. Others, like Glory, remembered. But Glory _never_ talked about her life before the Railroad if she could help it, and every runaway Wanderer had ever met had been similarly tight-lipped. Ponyboy had no reservations pouring his heart out to them.

Deacon was the first to recover, of course. He tapped his bottle to Ponyboy’s and said, “Yeah, it was perfect. Goddamn beautiful.”

High Rise raised his glass. “Glad to have you in the family, PB,” he said.

Wanderer leaned back on the couch and let the others talk. There were some days when it felt like the danger of this life dogged her every step. Days when she could be safe at HQ and still feel it lying in wait for her outside the door—eager to see if this was the day it would finally swallow her whole.

Then there were days like this, when it felt like they might have been any group of friends before the war, smoking and laughing, happy and cocksure, unafraid of what life had in store for them. It made her feel almost like a college kid again.

But this was the Railroad, and there was no such thing as happiness without fear, no total peace. She knew the others felt it, too, in some way or other, as a twinge of desperation or uneasiness: the ever-present anxiety of the hunted.

For her, it was a dark voice that whispered between each joke and laugh, each congenial pat on the back— _things have been too good for too long. Trouble is coming for you._

Deacon came over and sat next to her, squeezing in between her and High Rise. He placed an arm behind her, resting it on the back of the couch, and leaned in close. Instinctively, she leaned in toward him, too, until their faces were a hairsbreadth apart.

“High Rise has a route for us to clear. Then we can turn in here for the night, and head out again in the morning,” he said. A perfectly normal, businesslike thing for him to say, but his low voice still sent a pleasant chill down her arms and back.

There was something strange about his plan, though. She pulled back a little to study his face. “That’s it, two easy jobs for the whole day? And then we spend the night _here,_ at the top of a skyscraper?”

“Yeah, maybe don’t remind me about that part? That’d be great.”

Wanderer eyed him suspiciously. She loved it here, but Deacon usually got antsy if they hung around Ticonderoga for very long.

“Deacon, what’s going on?” she asked.

He grinned. “You’ll find out soon enough, boss. Let’s just say… I think tomorrow’s gonna be a really good day.”

When Deacon got a hold of a particularly juicy secret, he could be insufferable. Well, this time, she wasn’t going to complain. This time, she really hoped Deacon had something up his sleeve.

Because she couldn’t shake the feeling that if they didn’t go looking for trouble soon, it would find them.


	4. Chapter 4

Deacon _always_ had something up his sleeve.

At this point, he didn’t know any other way to live. It felt like bad luck not to have a hundred small schemes (and a few big ones) in play. The Commonwealth never sat still, so neither did he. The Institute, the Brotherhood, the Minutemen, they were all moving chips across the board, cashing in bets and making new ones. Every day the game changed, and Deacon had to be ready for it.

But this morning, Deacon wasn’t going to worry about all that. This morning, things were finally going to go _right._

He found Wanderer in the offices of the old police station they were scouting. He said cheerfully, “Still working on that terminal? Sorry, I forgot to tell you, we’re not here for intel. I lied about that.”

Wanderer stopped typing and looked up at him. “What have you been doing this whole time? I’ve spent the last forty minutes hacking this.”

“Oh… find anything good?”

“No. It’s all two hundred year old cold cases,” she said flatly.

“Hm. You have to admit, you should have seen that coming.”

She groaned and rubbed her eyes. Deacon chuckled fondly. She really wasn’t a morning person.

“You know, you could have just _said_ ‘Hey, Wanderer, I have something to show you, come on,’ and I would have come?”

“You know that’s not my style. Now come on, Wanderer, I have something to show you… over here.”

He stepped back around the corner. He was having a hard time keeping a grin off his face, and she’d noticed. She followed him, glancing curiously at the battered fedora and old detective’s badge in his hands.

He led her to the chief’s old office and gestured to the chair nearest the door. “Have a seat. I’ll only take a minute of your time,” he said.

“Alright, _detective_ ,” Wanderer said, settling into the chair.

Deacon took a seat in the large chair at the other side of the chief’s desk. She was smiling now, too. She took out a cigarette and lit it, glancing up at him through her lashes in mocking allure as she took a drag. And yeah, she was just messing around, but it was still kinda sexy. She neatly crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in the chair, raising her chin haughtily as she breathed out the smoke.

“So, snooper, what’s the word?” she said with a lilt in her voice that quickened Deacon’s heart. He didn’t know what it was about hearing her use pre-war slang that sent a thrilling chill through his body, but boy, did he like the sound of it.

“Please, doll. Call me Clyde,” he said, unable to resist playing along. But he took the cigarette from her hand and stubbed it out on an ashtray on the chief’s desk, because he didn’t think he could watch her lips close around it, watch her cheeks hollow out as she took a pull, one more time without it doing strange things to his insides.

“Clyde, huh? Well then you can call me Bonnie.”

His head snapped up at that. She was watching him mischievously, eyes flashing. She looked downright foxy.

It made him want to keep teasing her, just to see where she’d lead him. He was getting that feeling again—the one he’d had when he’d told her about Barbara, and his past. Like he wanted to stop running. Like he could set down some of his burdens, and he wasn’t afraid that the sheer weight of everything he carried was the only thing holding him together.

But no, he’d brought her here for a reason, and he was already letting himself get sidetracked.

“Quit kidding, now. This is serious business,” he said, but he was still grinning like crazy and she didn’t believe him at all.

“Oh, it’s _serious_? Let’s hear it then,” she said, eyebrows raised.

He rested his elbows on the desk and folded his hands in front of him, clearing his throat. He said, “Agent Wanderer, congratulations. You’ve been promoted to detective first class undercover.”

Deacon slapped the badge on the desk in front of her. He half stood so he could place the fedora on her head, and then settled back into his chair. Damn, she looked really cute in that hat.

“Wow, first class. Sounds important.” She flipped open the badge and inspected it, then looked up at him, a half smile on her face.

She was still waiting for the punch line. He said, “I’m not kidding. The Railroad really is promoting you. We don’t normally give out badges and fedoras, but I felt like the moment could use a little ceremony.”

The ready grin slid from her face, and her eyes widened. “Deacon, are you saying…”

Time to whip out the finger guns. “You’ve got the Institute job, partner.”

He sat back in his chair and waited for the happiness to break over her face.

It did… just not in the way he'd expected. She gave him this twisted half smile that quickly vanished, like she wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Deacon started to shift uncomfortably in his seat, because those were tears of gratitude welling up in her eyes. He’d never seen her cry before, and tears of any kind were the _last_ thing he wanted.

“Deacon—thank you. I won’t let you down,” she said.

“Hey, I didn’t do this out of the goodness of my heart, you know.”

“I know,” she said, too quickly.

“I’m serious. I think you’re the best agent for the job.”

“I am,” she said, sounding more like the nerves-of-steel, back-talking partner he knew.

Deacon grinned. “So, here’s the pitch I gave Dez: There’s a real slim chance any agent we send in will remain undetected for long. And as soon as they’re discovered, they’re as good as dead. Worse than, probably. But you’ve got a chance. The Institute’s got its eye on you.”

“What do you mean?” she asked warily, narrowing her eyes.

“Come on. The Institute has been the Commonwealth’s greatest secret for generations, then you hit the scene and all of a sudden the case starts to crack? No offense, but no one’s that good. Or that lucky. Someone’s been leaving you breadcrumbs.”

Wanderer frowned. She ticked off on her fingers all the reasons that couldn’t be true. “If the Institute has been watching me, then they know I killed their man Kellogg, and their Courser, they know I want Shaun back, and probably that I’ve had contact with the Railroad. They know we’re enemies.”

“Maybe, but maybe not. Look, we don’t know a lot about the Institute’s motives, but if I’d a guess, I’d say they're out to save the world, just like all the other factions vying for the Commonwealth. They think they’re the good guys. And if they _are_ interested in you, then they’ll think there’s a good chance they can convince you of that.”

“Or they hold Shaun hostage and _make_ me do what they want,” she said. Her face was carefully neutral, but her voice was deadly.

“That’s… also a possibility. And one Dez thinks is likely. So you see why it was difficult to get her to agree to this.”

“But you don’t think that’s what they’ll do?”

“They’ve been watching you. They know you have honor, and that you’re willing to fight to the death for your kid. Blackmailing you would be a risky game if they wanted you on their team. And if didn’t want that—if all they needed was a replacement Kellogg—they’d have approached you by now like they did him. Keep you far away from their HQ. Instead, they’re making you run the rat race, seeing if you have what it takes to be one of them. So yeah, I think they’ll try to woo you.”

Her voice was dark and angry when she said, “They killed Nate. They _kidnapped_ my child. How could they possibly think I’d join them?”

He shrugged. “Every story has two sides. I’m sure they’ll be eager to tell you theirs. And…” he chose his next words carefully. He was treading on dangerous ground here. But if she was going in, she needed to hear this, “From what you saw in Kellogg’s memories, Shaun doesn’t think the Institute is mistreating him.”

She closed her eyes. “No. He seemed to trust them.”

“So, if I were in the Institute’s shoes, I’d offer you the thing you seem to want most: your son, happy and safe. A home where the dangers of the Wasteland can’t touch you.”

She breathed out hard. “Fuck. It’s not blackmail, but it’s close. Either way, they won’t let me just waltz out with him.”

“Look, Dez doesn’t want to put a kid in danger. We’ll take the first opportunity we get to pull him out.”

She gave him a weary smile and this look that said _don’t give me that bullshit._ “ _If_ we get the opportunity,” she said.

Deacon leaned toward her, trying to catch her eye. “Wanderer, I’ll do everything I can to make sure your kid gets out safe. I promise.” He held his breath, waiting to see how she’d take that. Usually, his promises weren’t worth shit.

Her eyes searched his face. “Okay,” she said softly. She believed him. Deacon couldn’t help but smile. He’d made the right choice, convincing Dez to send her in. This would be the big break the Railroad needed.

That giddiness was rising up in him again. He knew they still had a long way to go, and the odds were still against them, but it had been a long time since he’d let himself feel _hope_ , and once he gave in a little, it was getting harder and harder to shut it out.

“So, you up for it?” he asked.

She flashed him that dangerous smile, the one she gave him when they were about to raise hell. “I’ll get the job done.”

“You’ll be our spy on the inside. _Finally,_ after all those times the Institute’s screwed us over, we get to return the favor. Do you know how long I’ve wanted my very own double agent? That reminds me, by the way: I’ll be your handler.”

She raised her eyebrows, and one side of her mouth kicked up mischievously. “Yeah? Think you can handle me, Deacon?”

“We’re gonna find out.” Deacon pulled a fake mustache from his pocket.

The smile disappeared. “Oh God, don’t do this.”

“Do what?” Deacon asked, adjusting the mustache. “Agent Wanderer, meet your handler,” he said in his best Mr. Handy British accent. He saw surprise flicker over her face. It was a good accent. She probably thought he’d been joking about that Mr. Handy disguise in the works. One day he’d figure out how to pull the whole thing off.

She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back in her chair. “I’m not talking to you like that.”

“You’d better, love. Spies are supposed to do everything their handler says.”

She leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table. “Deacon, take off the mustache.”

He leaned onto the table, too, mimicking her posture. “Make me.”

Nope, abort, abort. That had been the exact _wrong_ thing to say. Because that mischievous spark was back in her eyes, and—oh God—she had her hips on the desk and was swinging her legs toward him looking goddamn irresistible. _What_ had made him say that and _why_ was he grinning like he couldn’t wait to take her into his arms?

She reached for the mustache and he twisted away. He hooked an arm around her hips and pulled her onto his lap, pinning her arms to her sides. She tried to wriggle free, laughing, and he tilted his face up, kissing her neck just below her jaw, because at that moment it felt like the most natural thing in the world to do.

Wanderer stilled. Deacon could feel his heart pounding in his ears. He loosened his grip on her, keeping his hands on her hips as she turned around to face him and resettled herself on his lap. She ripped off the mustache and leaned in so close her lips brushed his when she said, “Drop the accent, but call me ‘love’ again.”

Yeah, there was no way in _hell_ he was doing that. But damn, he wanted to. The word was hot and sweet and dangerous in his throat. She was so close to making him confess it, with the way she was clenching her thighs tight around his hips, and trailing her fingers along his jaw to cup his face in her palms, the way her lips grazed his, whisper soft and then gone. _Love,_ he was about to say, _my love._

Luckily, she didn’t give him the chance to say it out loud. She pressed her lips to his _at last_ , and kissed him deeply.

Deacon was a man who played the long game in a world where most people were just trying to survive the day. He couldn’t afford to be short sighted, not with so much depending on him. Everything he said or did, he did with an eye to the consequences.

So _why_ was he kissing her and flirting with her and _wanting_ her like he was some love drunk newlywed?

Right now he was completely in her thrall, and he didn’t want to be anywhere else. She was moving her hips so maddeningly, rubbing against him as leaned in to kiss him, and smiling softly at the groan she drew from his throat. Her fingers were ghosting over his chest now, her touch making him shiver, and all thoughts of _consequences_ and _fraternization_ and _focus on the mission_ slipped from his mind.

She moved her lips from his and kissed him just below his ear. She whispered into it, “I don’t think you can handle me.”

The laugh he gave in reply was part panic, part joy, and all honesty. How the hell was she _doing_ this to him?

Part of his brain was telling him, _say something, say something, you never lose a battle of wits_ , but another, louder part was saying, _shut up and kiss her back, you fucking idiot._

So he kissed her, stroking his tongue over hers slowly, relishing the soft gasp that caught in the back of her throat. He loved the way her body felt, soft and hot and so close to his, and he feared the way his mask had started to slip, how he wanted to lay his heart bare at her feet.

But it had been _so long_ since being so close to someone else had felt this good. He didn’t want to shy away from it. He kissed the soft skin of her neck beneath her jaw. He licked along her throat and felt the wonderful thrum of her voice when she moaned in pleasure. The sound of it set him on fire, and his hips bucked so hard the chair groaned underneath them.

She arched into him, her fingers flexing against his chest. He kissed her collarbone, where he could feel the heavy rise and fall of her chest. His grip tightened convulsively on her hips, and she jumped a little in surprise, brushing against his now-hard cock and sending another wave of heat through him.

And then there was a loud _crack_ , and a lurch, and the ancient chair gave out, toppling them both onto the floor.

He clutched her against him to cushion her fall as they landed with a thud, tangled together and breathing hard. She rolled off him, laughing and flushed.

But Deacon’s good mood had been snuffed out. Because this was the way it always went: whenever something good came into his life, the moment he reached out to take hold of it, to keep it close and safe, it turned to shit in his hands. Karma was always just waiting to kick him in the teeth.

Wanderer had noticed the change in him. She sat up, watching him with concern.

Deacon stood quickly. He turned to help her up after him, taking her hand and pulling her to her feet. He held on a moment too long, seized by the sudden impulse to cup her face in his hands, close his eyes, and lean his forehead against hers, breathing in the smell of her for a long, long time.

He made himself let go of her hand and stepped away. Wanderer’s grin had disappeared. The flush of pleasure on her face had waned.

“Deacon?”

He rubbed the back of his head, not meeting her eye. He said, “If Dez catches even a whiff of this, she’ll have one or both of us out of HQ and assigned to a perimeter safehouse for a long while. And we’ll never be partnered up again.”

“Well, damn. Are you any good at keeping secrets?” she said slyly.

He couldn’t help but smile at that.

The pull of her was so strong, so _good_ , he wanted badly to surrender himself to it. But his sense of duty was pulling him the other way, just as strong, reminding him that there was _one thing_ he needed to do before Death finally caught up with him: he had to break the Railroad’s curse.

For a long time, that had been the only thing he wanted. Now, he wanted more. He wanted _her_ and a life with her, if that was even possible. He wanted to _try_. But he couldn’t do both—save the Railroad, and be the man she needed him to be. Could he?

He said, “Hey, secrets is my middle name.”

The smile she gave him in return—sly and playful and _happy_ —evaporated some of the fear that had settled in his chest.

When he was with her, he didn’t feel the restlessness that hounded his days and most of his nights. He felt at peace, sometimes, almost. And the way she’d looked at him just now… Somehow, he had the power to make her happy—not just a fleeting, in-the-moment pleasure, but a deep, satisfying warmth that reached the heart. The way she made _him_ feel.

He didn’t know if that would be enough. They were about to go toe-to-toe with the Institute. It was a recipe for heartbreak if he’d ever seen one. But lately, for the first time in a long time, things had been going his way. Maybe, this time, he could protect the people he set out to protect. Maybe this time it wouldn’t end in blood.


	5. Chapter 5

According to Tinker Tom, the Relay would be operational in two days.

Wanderer had spent all the time she could stomach filling in the Railroad’s prewar files, and was rambling around HQ now, probably making a nuisance of herself. She and Deacon had been ordered to stick close to the Church while they prepared for infiltrating the Institute, which meant Wanderer was going stir-crazy again. She was trying not to get in anyone’s way, but _God,_ there was nothing to do. Now she knew why Drummer Boy was chomping at the bit to be assigned to the field.

Of course, boredom wasn’t the only thing getting under her skin. Ever since their kiss, she’d been itching to get Deacon alone again, just the two of them. But Dez had been watching them like a hawk. For months, it had been just the two of them on the road, just the two of them hunkering down at the end of a long day, just the two of them exchanging banter to pass the time. And now, when she was hungriest for them, those moments were suddenly scarce.

And there was the small matter of the Relay hanging over her head. It was hard to quiet her thoughts and fears when she didn’t have any real work to distract her, and so much was happening all at once. Agents were looking up from their desks to give her wary glances, and she realized she was pacing.

Drummer Boy half turned in his chair and called to her, “I know you like to wander, but this is getting ridiculous. You look like you’re about to spontaneously combust.”

Wanderer shot him a look. He was smirking at her, but she knew how to take a hint. She changed course and made her way over to Tinker Tom. His natural state was fidgety and high-strung, so was he wasn’t likely to be too bothered by her restlessness.           

“Hey, Wanderer. You need anything?” he said as she approached. He sounded as upbeat as ever, but she caught a suspicious glint in his eye when he glanced up at her from his terminal.

She’d done her best to leave Tom alone when it came to the Molecular Relay, partly because Deacon had warned her that the guy was under enough pressure without any of them breathing down his neck, and partly because she didn’t really want to know more than she already did—what she _did_ know was enough to terrify her. She hadn’t asked Tom about it yet, but it was always in the back of her mind when they talked, and he could sense it.

She was going to ask about Deliverer—something the two of them were always able to talk animatedly about together—but now that she was here, she couldn’t think of anything to say. Damn, she _had_ come over here thinking about the Relay.

Suddenly, Deacon was there, slinging an arm around her shoulders, saying “Hey, boss." Before she could reply, he guided her gently but firmly over to where Glory was sitting at a card table, arms crossed and glowering at him.

“Wow, you’re just in time, partner,” Deacon said, like he hadn’t just bodily steered her over to their table.

“Don’t ask,” Glory warned. She was giving Wanderer a look that said, _you see what I have to put up with._ Deacon’s face was saying _go along with it, please._

“In time for what?” she asked.

“Damn, Wanderer. I thought we were friends,” Glory muttered.

“We’re having a party,” Deacon said, one eyebrow raised mischievously.

“Okay... What are we celebrating?”

Glory glared at her. “Nothing. He just does this every once in a while because he likes to _annoy_ me.”

“Hey, now. Turn that frown upside down, my friend,” Deacon said. Glory turned her death stare on him, and he made a heroic effort to keep from smiling.

“I even got you a present.” He continued, drawing a bottle of Bobrov’s moonshine from behind his back. “ _For she’s a jolly good fellow–_ ”

“I swear to God, Deacon, if you don’t stop singing I’m gonna knock you out cold. I’ll take the whiskey, though.”

Deacon gave Wanderer a triumphant smile.

“You in, Wanderer?” Glory asked.

She took a seat next to Glory. “I’m not gonna turn down a free drink.”

“Ha! That’s the spirit.”

Deacon pulled up a chair and took his seat at the table, flashing a grin at Wanderer. She couldn’t quite return the smile. In a matter of days, she would be going to the Institute. She would see Shaun again, if all went well. But first she had to let Tinker Tom scatter her atoms into a million pieces and trust him to put her back together again. She’d never wanted a stiff drink so badly.

Glory poured a shot for each of them. She said, “The last runaway from the Crowley job made it out of the Commonwealth two days ago. A shot for each of them. And two for Ponyboy, because it’s about damn time we got another synth in this outfit.”

Wanderer gladly obliged, each shot tingling in her throat, warming her chest and stomach. When Glory stopped pouring, Wanderer made herself another shot. Before she could drink it, Deacon lightly lifted the glass from her hand, and held it out of reach.

“That’s mine,” she protested.

“Stop trying to keep up with her, you maniac,” Deacon said, chuckling.

Wanderer lounged unsteadily for the glass, but Deacon deftly pulled it away and handed it to Glory, who downed the shot and waggled the empty glass playfully at her.

Maybe Deacon had a point. Bobrov’s was strong stuff, and she did feel a little wobbly, and too purely happy. Since the war she hardly drank at all—she’d always been looking over her shoulder and had needed to stay sharp at all times. It was only lately she’d felt inclined to let her guard down, but she couldn’t afford to overdo it right before a big job. She sighed and sat back heavily in her seat.

Glory was grinning at her, eyebrows raised. “Damn. That didn’t take much at all. That’s kinda cute, Wanderer.”

“Fine, I’ll stop. But don’t rub it in,” she said grumpily.

“Aw, no hard feelings, right? We’re still friends?” Deacon teased, poking her with his elbow.

“You’re my _best_ friend,” she insisted.

Deacon smiled broadly at her. She liked when he did that, unleashed his full smile. He looked happy, and young.

“Maybe. But you didn’t like me much at first, I could tell,” he said.

“No, I didn’t. I thought you were a lying asshole.”

Glory snorted into her glass. “Look out, she’s an honest drunk,” she said.

Deacon cocked his head at her. “I _am_ a lying asshole.”

Wanderer shrugged and smiled. “But you’re _my_ lying asshole.”

Deacon laughed at that, but Glory’s eyes flicked between the two of them, from Deacon’s face to hers, eyebrows drawing together slightly.

Wanderer knew she’d probably said something she shouldn’t have, but she felt so content and light that she didn’t want to stop and run damage control right now.

She knew they had to tread lightly around the others, especially at HQ, but otherwise she didn’t give a damn about the Railroad’s rules on fraternization. After all the darkness she’d seen in Commonwealth, she wasn’t going to just throw something good away. She wouldn’t let her feelings for Deacon jeopardize their work—or their lives.

_I bet that’s what every love struck idiot thinks, right before getting themselves killed in the field._

She considered that a moment, then tucked the thought away in the back of her mind, where she could ignore it for a good long time.

The three of them whiled away the rest of the afternoon talking and laughing together, and for a few brief hours Wanderer forgot to worry about the days ahead. At some point, they moved away from the table and ended up in the sleeping quarters, Wanderer and Glory sitting side by side in a catacombs tunnel, leaning against one another, their legs spread out in front of them. Deacon was sprawled on his stomach on a mattress near their feet, snoring lightly.

Glory nodded toward Deacon. “I think it’s the day I joined the Railroad, what he’s celebrating. But I’m pretty sure it’s a different day every year, so who really knows.”

Wanderer watched the steady rise and fall of Deacon’s chest, trying to judge if he really was asleep, or just pretending. “Want to know what I think?”

“Huh?”

“I think this is just something he does when he thinks you need cheering up.”

Glory blinked. She was quiet for a moment, watching Deacon. “Aw, hell,” she said.

Wanderer rested her head on Glory’s shoulder. She was truly tipsy and in danger of falling fast asleep, huddled in the dark passageway against the warm body of her friend.

She felt Glory shift, nudging her face with her shoulder. Wanderer murmured in protest.

“Wanderer, are you really falling asleep on me right now?”

“Uh-huh. Please don’t move. You’re so comfy.”

“Ugh, _fine_. You’re lucky I have a soft spot for newbies.”

Wanderer smiled sleepily. “You’ve no such thing. You just _like_ me.”

“Whatever,” Glory said.

Wanderer had drifted off for a few minutes when she heard Glory’s voice again, followed by another nudge with her shoulder.

“Hey, Wanderer?”

“Hm?”

“Does he ever open up to you when you guys talk? Like… for real?”

Wanderer thought back over their time together. “Yeah. Not often—you know how he is—but, yeah, I think so.”

Glory nodded. “I’m glad he talks to someone. Working with you has been good for him, you know. The Switchboard really messed him up.”

Wanderer shifted so she was sitting upright. “The Switchboard messed everyone up, sounds like.”

“Yeah, but… you didn’t know him then. Right after. He’d say stuff sometimes, like he thought it was his fault. Like he should have seen it coming. He’d disappear for days, and no one knew where he was. He’s been through a lot of shit. For a while I thought the Switchboard might have been one disaster too many.”

Wanderer’s heart sank. The Railroad had a rocky history, and Deacon had been with them longer than any other living agent. She didn’t know if that was the reason he took on so much, or if it was just his way to push himself too hard. But he still did that—blamed himself for every loss—because he was their intel guy, the man with all the answers.

If she could ever find away to make him share his burdens, to relinquish some of that guilt, she’d gladly bear some of the load. She knew what it was like to be haunted by the past, to carry it with you wherever you went. Since she’d first stumbled into the Commonwealth, she’d found a way to lay down some of her guilt and leave it behind. But Deacon… she didn’t think he had.

“Anyway,” Glory said, “I guess I just wanted to say that I’m glad you’re here. And we’d better stop talking now because I’d say there’s a fifty-fifty chance he’s not really asleep.”

They fell silent, Wanderer watching Deacon. He was resting his head on one arm, his sunglasses askew, his face peaceful. He looked years younger like this.

She said, “Hey, Glory. Wanna draw a mustache on him?”

Glory snort-giggled. “ _Hell_ yeah. Best party ever.”

Wanderer couldn't muster the energy to look for something to write with, but she laughed, too, feeling lighter than she had in a long time. She wondered fleetingly if it hadn't been Glory that Deacon was trying to cheer up tonight, but her. 


	6. Chapter 6

_Tonight, I might see Shaun again._ The thought had been rattling around in her head all day, sneaking up on her in moments she didn't expect it—when she was repairing her armor, or eating lunch—and she’d have to stop what she was doing, close her eyes, and wait for the fierce ache in her chest to subside.

She was afraid of what would happen when she found him. Afraid of the deep longing to cup his small face in her hands and plant a long, gentle kiss in his dark hair, to fall to her knees sobbing and hug him tightly.

He was ten years old now; he’d been an infant the last time she’d seen him. He wouldn’t even know her. She hoped, at least, he knew _about_ her—that he had a parent out there who was looking for him, who loved him like they’d never been apart.

But it didn’t matter, either way. Whatever lay ahead, she could endure it. As long as he was alive, she could figure out the rest in time— _if_ she survived the Molecular Relay, that is.

For the last few days, whenever she’d felt the panic setting in, she’d picture Shaun, sitting cross legged on Kellogg’s floor in Diamond City while his father’s murderer cleaned his gun beside him—or the terrified helplessness in Nate’s eyes as he lay bleeding out—and determination and rage would push out all other feeling.

But after a five-hour debriefing with Dez yesterday and waking up today feeling like a prisoner on the morning of execution, she was spent. Picturing Nate and Shaun now only made her sink deeper into the encroaching fear that she was about to fail them both.

After sundown, she and Deacon left HQ. They skirted the edge of the city, making their way to Mercer safehouse. It was slow going in the darkness, but neither of them was in a hurry.

There had been a time not long ago when Wanderer had feared the Wasteland after dark. When she’d felt the need to see trouble coming from thirty feet away and was liable to jump at shadows. But now she felt safest in the deepest part of the night. Now, she was as deadly as any other threat lurking in the darkness. As long as she kept to the shadows, nothing could touch her.

“How’d your briefing with Dez go? You remember everything?” Deacon asked.

“Make contact with Patriot, learn the Institute’s deepest, darkest secrets. It’s not a long to-do list,” she said.

“Huh. So this is what other people feel like when they know _I_ _’_ _m_ keeping secrets.”

She sighed. “I’m not keeping secrets on purpose, I just… don’t want to talk about it right now.”

“Hm. Nervous?”

“What’s there to be nervous about? I’m only about to use an untested teleporter that’s going to scramble my molecules and _hopefully_ put them back together again inside the enemy’s HQ… with no backup.”

“Well, when you put it like that, worrying does seem silly,” Deacon said.

“It could zap me right out of existence, and you’d never know if I’d made it to the Institute, or died right in front of you,” she said.

Deacon stumbled a step as he turned to look at her. “Fuck, Wanderer. Do you know what a jinx is? Because I’m pretty sure you’re inviting all sorts of bad luck, talking like that.”

“I’m just being honest,” she shrugged.

“Ah yes, and you know how much I _love_ brutal honesty. That was sarcasm, by the way.”

There was an uncharacteristic testiness in his voice. That had really gotten to him, the remark about getting zapped to death. It hadn’t been kind to say, but there was something inside her tonight that wanted to drag everyone else down into a foul mood to match her own.

She might die tonight. She didn’t know the odds, but she was pretty sure they weren’t in her favor. And she really, really didn’t want to die.

It was just about all she could do to keep from losing herself in that looming dread. This wasn’t a danger she could face with a gun and some pluck. Her fate would be entirely in another’s hands. She was desperate for someone to share that helplessness with her, and Deacon was the closest friend she had. She knew it was selfish, but right now, more than anything, she wanted to not feel so _alone._

But Deacon had never been big on goodbyes, and he was being his usual, goofy self. Or trying to be, anyway. If she told him what was going on inside her head, she was afraid he’d just slither away, make a joke, tell a lie, and leave her feeling more lonely and scared than she’d been before.

Or maybe she just needed to give him a chance. He’d never let her down before when she’d needed him most.

She stopped walking. Deacon stopped, too, half turning to her to see what the trouble was.

“Deacon—” she said, reaching for him. She took hold of his shirt and tugged him closer as he drifted back toward her.

She really had intended to say something that began _hey, if I don_ _’_ _t make it_ _…_ but everything that came to mind felt trite and not worth speaking out loud, and she just kept drawing him closer until she could rest her head against his shoulder, tucking her face into the curve of his neck.

He didn’t stiffen or pull away—he didn’t even say something smart. He drew in a deep breath, then he put his arms around her and held her.

After a moment, he said, “I’m… not good at hugging.”

She grunted. “You were doing just fine until you started talking.”

“Huh. You think so?”

She shut her eyes and held on to him a little longer, but this wasn’t helping. She still felt scraped-out and empty from worry. She wasn’t in the mood for talking or gentle farewells. She looked up at Deacon, and felt him go still as he caught sight of something tense and desperate in her face.

He was looking down at her, their faces almost touching. She wanted to kiss him, to feel that spark again of affection and desire, and maybe something much deeper. In the back of her mind, she knew that might not be the healthiest way to work through her fears, to satisfy her urgent need to feel close to someone before she stumbled on her own into the unknown. But she also knew that if she didn't kiss him now, she might not get another chance.

She tilted her face up to his, and kissed him on the lips—a kiss that was rough with hunger and fear.

The doubts in the back of her mind evaporated. They didn't matter, because she knew now that she wasn’t alone, that they’d both worried themselves raw these past few days thinking about the Relay. She could feel Deacon's fear in the hitch of breath in his chest when their lips had met, in his desperate grip on her back, his fingers digging in.

She took a few steps back, pulling Deacon with her until her back was pressed against the wall. She hooked a leg over his hip, drawing him closer. He held her there, his hand warm on her thigh, gripping tight. Her breath quickened, his touch making her feel warm and alive again, a little bit of her fear melting away.

If this was their goodbye, she wanted to savor every moment they had left together.

She pulled away from him enough to shrug off her jacket, then lifted her shirt over her head, and let it fall. The cool night air was refreshing against her too-hot skin. She smiled at the flash of desire in Deacon’s eyes.

Wanderer took his shirt in both her fists and pulled him back to her. She said softly, “Don’t stop,” and kissed him again. Deacon kissed her back hungrily and slid a hand around her back again, holding her against his chest.

His kisses moved lower, to the hinge of her jaw, her neck, where he nipped at the sensitive skin. Her breath caught in a soft gasp as he dipped his tongue into the hollow at the center of her collarbone. She brought a hand up to cradle the back of his neck, her face tilted up toward the sky, her breathing shallow.

Maybe the hour before a big mission wasn’t the wisest time to stoke her libido, but she wanted him so _badly_ , wanted to be as close to him as she could be before … before the Relay. She wanted to feel his hands on her and remember that her luck wasn’t all bad. Being close to him like this made her almost believe that everything would turn out all right in the end.

She took his face in her hands, lifted his mouth to hers, and kissed him deeply, her tongue skimming over his. He made a thrilling, starved sound that she felt deep in her stomach.

He lifted her then, his hands dropping to cup her ass, and she hooked her other leg around him, clenching her thighs as she braced her back against the wall. They were vulnerable and distracted, hands full of each other, in the middle of raider territory. She should have been afraid, but the danger just made her heart pound faster in excitement.

Deacon dragged his teeth over the swell of her breast and licked under the fabric of her bra, his tongue grazing her tender nipple. She bit back a cry of pleasure.

She leaned down to whisper to him, “I want you, Deacon.”

He made a low, ragged sound. For a man of many words, he certainly wasn’t very talkative now. She kissed him, and before he could properly kiss her back this time, she pulled away, lips grazing over his cheek.

She said, “Tell me you want me, too.”

“I want you,” he said, his voice raw and shaky with desire, almost a whisper. She smiled. Ah, so that’s why he was so quiet. There was no pretense to him when they were like this. No smooth lies or easy bravado to hide behind. It made her ache, the sound of his voice. She wanted to hear him tell the truth again.

She took his chin between her thumb and forefinger and held his face as he went to kiss her, making him look up at her instead. Yeah, she liked this a lot—the feel of his hands as they firmly gripped her ass, the way it left him wholly at her mercy. She ran her thumb over his chin and lips so she could feel his hot, ragged breath, then trailed her fingers over his cheek.

“You’re not lying, are you?” she teased, her voice low.

He pushed his body closer to her, pinning her more firmly against the wall. She drew in a sharp breath, loving the feel of him, relishing the slight scrape of her back against the rough brick. All of it keeping her in this moment, with this man, not thinking about what lay ahead.

“No, babe. I’m not lying,” he said.

The term of endearment sent a flush heat over her chest and neck. She wondered how far they could go here in the dead of night, in a lonely corner of the Apocalypse, without being too reckless. Hell, they were probably already being too reckless.

The sudden, sharp report of machine gun fire from somewhere nearby had them springing apart.

Deacon set her on her feet and spun around, standing protectively in front of her. Wanderer already had her gun drawn, poised to fire. She tried to take a step around him, but he kept a hand on her hip, keeping her back. "Wait," he whispered.

They both stood still and tense, and Wanderer took a few deep, calming breaths to try to get her racing pulse under control. She could barely hear over the sound of her heart pounding in her ears.

No threat materialized at the mouth of the alley. The next burst of automatic fire was farther away. She lowered the gun, but stayed wary. She and Deacon listened to the distant fray until their heavy breathing returned to normal.

Well, so much for their sweet goodbye. The gunshots had brought her back to reality. They couldn’t leave Tinker Tom and Desdemona waiting for them much longer. Wanderer holstered Deliverer. She retrieved her shirt from the alley floor, shook it out, and pulled it back on. Deacon picked up her jacket and handed it to her without a word.

It was Kellogg’s jacket. She still wasn’t entirely sure why she’d taken it in the first place—it hadn’t been a classy thing to do. But hey, it was hard to stay classy all the time in the Wasteland, and it was a _nice_ jacket. And if she made it to the Institute, she wanted to give them a little reminder of what happened to people who tried to fuck her over.

Then Deacon cupped the back of her neck in his hand, gently, pulling her from her grim thoughts. He gave her a half grin, and said, “You’ll come back, Wanderer.”

The faith in his voice cut right through her. She wondered if he really believed it.

“I’ll do my best,” she said. His grin flickered out. He teased a hand through her hair, his touch tender and fond. Then he leaned forward and kissed her forehead, one hand cupping her cheek. She held her hand over his and closed her eyes, savoring his touch.

After a minute she pulled away, and they started walking again in silence. She was sweaty and disheveled and flustered—which was not at all how she’d intended to infiltrate the Institute—but it was _worth_ it for one last honest moment with Deacon before…whatever came next.

She’d wanted to tell him, _I love you_. Whisper it breathlessly into his ear as he’d held her. The words had threatened to slip out with every gasp of pleasure. But right now, that was only a great way to wreck his head—especially if the Relay ended up splattering her guts all over Hangman’s Alley.

Later. She could tell him later. If she survived.


	7. Chapter 7

So. This was it. Another all-or-nothing gamble—Deacon’s bread and butter. Except this time wasn’t like all the others. This time… he _really_ didn’t want to think about what—and who—he was risking.

It was dark in the alley except for a few lights the Railroad had rigged up when they’d converted it to a safehouse. A few ramshackle buildings were clustered around the narrow space, but the Railroad hadn’t been using this location for Mercer long, and it was still underdeveloped and understaffed—more of a pit stop than a true safehouse.

All the regular personnel had been sent away for tonight. It was just the four of them, and the Relay. Tom’s machines had taken up most of the remaining ground space, making the alley feel cramped and cluttered.

“You’re late,” Dez said as he and Wanderer approached. She was half hidden in the shadows of the alley, her head and torso concealed in a swathe of darkness, her face faintly lit by the glow of her cigarette.

Deacon and Wanderer exchanged a look. The small, secret smile she gave him settled some of the turmoil in his head.

“Sorry boss,” Deacon said. He and Wanderer walked over to where Tom was busy at the controls.

“Got any advice for me, Tom?” Wanderer asked, leaning against the control panel and folding her arms.

He looked up at them as if he’d just noticed they were there. “So, stand still when you’re up there. Gotta lock in all those molecules of yours. Hopefully we won’t miss any…there’s only, you know, sixty trillion of them.”

“Funny,” she said dryly.

Tom smiled at her. “Hey, you asked.” He flicked a few switches on the control panel, and the machines shuddered to life. “We are in business.”

“Status report,” Dez said.

Deacon saw the red flare of her cigarette in the dark as she took a drag. Smoke wafted into the light. She was leaning casually against the wall, as if this was another night of business as usual. But he knew by the growing pile of crushed cigarette butts at her feet that she was far from calm.

“We got activity, Dez. Not sure how long before it peaks,” Tom said.

“Sounds like my cue,” Wanderer said. She headed for the Relay platform.

Deacon waited until Wanderer had taken a few steps away. Then he leaned over to Tom and asked, voice low, “Is this going to work?” _Tell me this is going to work._

“Oh, yeah, man. Definitely. Definitely. Well, maybe.”

Deacon rubbed a hand over his face. “You know, sometimes I really wish you’d learn how to lie, Tom.”

“Hey, that’s your thing,” Tom said, shrugging. His face was tense, and he was avoiding meeting Deacon's eye. He was nervous as hell, and Deacon wasn’t helping any by standing around second-guessing him.

Deacon sighed and followed Wanderer to the Relay. He took her hand and helped her step up onto the platform.

“What about you, Deacon? Have any advice?” she asked.

She didn’t need any more advice. She just wanted to hear someone’s voice—maybe _his_ voice, specifically—to keep her mind off of what she was about to do. So Deacon started talking. It’s what he did best.

“Sure, here’s what I got: Infiltration 101. You already know you can’t be too prickly once you’re inside, but you can’t be too cuddly, either. That’ll feel fake, and people can smell a fake, especially when they have plenty of secrets to protect. So, you rile ‘em up a little bit, without pushing too hard. I guess what I’m saying is… sass ‘em for me, alright? Just sass the hell out of them.”

A small almost-grin flicked over her lips. “I’ll do you proud, Deacon.”

“That’s my girl!”

Damn, that smile. How long had he been able to make her smile like that? It must be new, because no way could he have seen that smile before and _not_ have felt this warm and light inside.

Classical music started playing in the background—a piano piece—as Tom scanned the radio station for the Institute’s signal. It was echoing off the walls of the alley, making the melody sound lost and chaotic. The Relay began to spark with energy.

“Tom, talk to me,” Dez said loudly. They had to shout now to hear one another over the loud pops of electricity.

“Booting up the scan sequence. This frequency is only going to work once. _You-Know-Who_ doesn’t make the same mistake twice,” Tom said.

Deacon’s eyes hadn’t left Wanderer’s face. “Pick me up something nice from the gift shop, alright?” he said.

“Sure.” He was losing her. Her voice was tense, and the look in her eyes was frightened and faraway.

He reached up to her, and she took his hand, squeezing hard.

“Remember what I said, alright? You’ll come back,” he told her. But he already knew he wasn’t gonna bring that smile back now. She was too scared.

“You better stand back,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said softly. He gave her hand a final squeeze and stepped away.

“Alright. Feeding our baby some juice. Let’s see what she’s got,” Tom said.

The alley shuddered, and a pipe broke loose from the Relay, wriggling wildly and spewing gas or steam into the air.

“Is that supposed to happen?” Deacon shouted, whipping his head around to look at Tom.

“Oh man! Don’t worry about that. That’s… part of the plan,” Tom said loudly for Wanderer’s benefit, but he but was giving Deacon a deadly glare. _Shut. Up._

Deacon turned back to the Relay. Wanderer’s heart rate was rising with his own. He was keeping his breathing even and controlled despite his racing pulse, but she was taking deep, unsteady breaths, her fists clenched tight at her sides.

The whine of the machine was rising, getting piercingly loud. Blue lightning danced over Wanderer’s head at the top of the machine. Jesus, she had nerves of steel. She didn’t move an inch as the bolts arched down around the metal limbs of the Relay.

Tom said, “Come on. I think I got it. Establishing lock on the Institute signal.”

This was starting to feel like a really, really, really bad idea. Deacon had the crazy urge to cut the power, call the whole thing off, and collapse into a relieved heap once the alley had gone still and quiet again. But he kept that impulse locked down tight, because _this was going to work._ It _had_ to. This time, he didn’t have a contingency plan if the first fell through.

His eardrums were throbbing with the sharp whine of the Relay. He could feel the mounting howl of the machine deep in his gut, twisting and churning. Each _fiss_ and _crack_ of lightning wound him up tighter as the bolts scorched the dry air, making the fine hairs on his arms and neck stand on end.

Sparks, bright blue in the dim light, flickered over Wanderer’s clothes and hair as she shifted her weight. Deacon didn’t know how much longer he could watch this.

Dez had left the shadows to stand near the Relay next to him, watching Wanderer intently. “Find a way to save them. No one else can,” she said, so softly it was almost a prayer.

“Found the RF. We got it!” Tom called. “Now!”

There was a bright, disorienting, flash of light, and the night exploded in an ear-splitting _BANG_ that Deacon felt deep in his bones. The searing _pop_ of an electric shock shot through his body, and a force like a Brahmin’s kick hit him in the chest, knocking him back. It was followed by a roar of heat as the alley filled with smoke.

Deacon staggered away from the Relay, unable to find sure footing in the thick smog. He fell onto one knee, bracing a hand against the ground until it stopped tilting. His arms and face felt sunburned. His ears were ringing, but he could still make out muffled sounds nearby, then Dez’s voice.

“Deacon! Are you all right?” she called.

The smoke was beginning to let up a little, but he still couldn’t see the others. Deacon stumbled to his feet and started back toward the twisted silhouette of the Relay, ignoring the heat emanating from the wreck. He needed to know what had happened to her, even if the possibilities his imagination was running with right now were horrifying—

“Deacon! Sound off!” Dez was getting frantic now. The fear in her voice pulled him back.

He stopped walking toward the Relay like an idiot and called back, “I’m good! Just a little shook up.”

“Thank God,” he heard her say quietly.

It didn’t take long for the smoke to clear, revealing Tom and Dez standing a safe distance from the blackened, twisted remains of the Relay. Deacon went over to them, unable to look away from the utterly wrecked machine. He wasn’t sure what was _supposed_ to have happened, but this definitely didn’t look right.

“Tooooooooooom?” The sound felt so detached, Deacon honest-to-God thought Dez was asking the question before he realized no, that was his mouth moving, his vocal chords vibrating, his anxious voice in the air.

“What, man?” Tom said.

Deacon wasn’t actually sure what he wanted to ask, so he just gestured to the mess of metal where Wanderer had been standing a minute ago.

“You gotta give me more than that,” Tom said, sounding piqued. Given he’d just spent the last fifteen minutes manning an exploding machine that was supposed to _teleport a person_ , Deacon likely wasn’t the only one with frayed nerves.

“Did she make it?” Dez asked.

“No clue,” Tom replied.

“Fucking great,” Deacon said, with a little too much harshness and not nearly enough of his usual laid back sarcasm. “So it could have just zapped her to death, and you have _no clue_?”

“Hey, I didn’t say _that_. From what I can tell, everything went smooth as gravy on our end.”

“Are you kidding? The thing was _falling apart,_ Tom.”

“Yeah, but you don’t see any entrails and shit lying around, do you? If we’d just exploded Wanderer, we’d know it. Probably. But nope, the readings were sound. All signs say she was actually _transported_ somewhere. You follow?”

“But did she make it to the Institute?” Dez said.

“Uh… maybe? All depends on if they picked her up, accepted our hijacked signal as legit. If they didn’t…” he waved a hand vaguely in the air.

Dez nodded. “So now we wait.”

Deacon tucked his hands into his pockets and scuffed a foot against the ground, trying to look casual and not like a man scared out of his goddamned mind. He asked Dez, “So, how long do we give her before we call it a bust?”

Dez didn’t answer him right away. She struck a match and lit another cigarette. For fuck’s sake, she was _trying_ to push his buttons. And it was working. When had Dez become such a smooth operator, able to make him dance on her strings?

He didn’t rise to the bait, just stood there waiting until Dez spoke again.

“She has one week to reestablish contact. After that, she’ll be considered dead or hostile. She knows,” Dez said.

 _One week._ Deacon hadn’t known. If he had, he certainly would have argued for more time.

The Railroad needed a deadline so they could move house if it looked like Wanderer might be compromised, but a week was nothing. They had no idea what was waiting for her inside the Institute, or how she’d be able to get back out.

He took off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. Why hadn’t Wanderer asked for more _time_? “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” he said.

“It was need-to-know only. And she asked me not to. She said you’d freak out. I have to say, I didn’t believe her, but…” Dez trailed off pointedly.

“I’m not freaking out.”

“Of course not,” Dez said too smoothly, like she didn’t believe him at all. “But it _is_ interesting: I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with your glasses off before.”

Deacon looked down at the sunglasses still in his hand, imagining the tension and fear that was written all over his expression. He slid the shades back on—up went his poker face, and his easy grin.

“What’s our next move, boss?” he asked.

Dez just gave him an evaluating look for a moment. Then she said, “All that racket will have attracted attention. Raiders and scavvers probably cleared out, but if there’s Brotherhood in the area, they’ll investigate. Time to burn the place and move out.”

She tossed her cigarette to the ground and crushed it under her foot, then moved away to rig the place. Tom started packing up hastily, salvaging any tech that hadn’t been completely destroyed. They wouldn’t be using this location for Mercer safehouse after tonight.

Deacon stayed where he was. Steam was still pouring off the machine, swirling in dense eddies around his feet. He stretched out his hand toward the wrecked Relay. The twisted metal was still red hot in places, and he could feel heat of it from five feet away.

Had she really survived this? She’d escaped death so many times—they’d escaped death _together_ so many times. If Deacon turned out to be the asshole responsible for getting her killed...

Tom came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder.

“I did my best, man. I think she made it,” he said.

“I know, Tom. You did good,” Deacon said, still staring at the empty spot where Wanderer had been.

Tom patted his back and then stepped away. “Gotta move, D,” he called over his shoulder.

For one nonsensical moment, Deacon thought, _But I need to wait here until she gets back._ Then he shook himself, and followed Dez and Tom from the alley.

A fire had started near the controls, and rank black smoke was drifting in the air. Deacon felt like he was moving through a dream—the air too thick, his steps too slow. He didn’t know if he was still shook up from the explosion, or from his nerves being hopelessly frayed, or both, but he knew one thing: he was slipping already.

This was going to be one long damn week.


	8. Chapter 8

Wanderer fell to her knees in a small, circular room. It was filled with a musty gold haze, though she wasn’t sure if that was just her eyes playing tricks on her or not. Her ears were still ringing with the high, loud yowl of the Relay, her body still bracing for the ax to drop, and her brain was having trouble adjusting the sudden change in surroundings.

She’d thought it would hurt—a lot—being zapped into sixty trillion tiny pieces, but it turns out Tom had scattered her atoms so quickly that she hadn’t had any sensation at all before popping into this strange room. It was disorienting as hell.

She lay on her back on the floor for a few minutes, panting, until her heart rate returned to normal. She tried to forget the roar and tremble of the Molecular Relay, the grim look on Dez’s face and the hard set of Deacon’s jaw as they’d watched her. She’d thought she was going to die.

But she hadn’t; she’d made it. _She’d made it_. Shaun was here, somewhere. Her breathing slowed, and she got to her feet, walking from the chamber on shaky legs.

Outside the Relay room, the place looked like a dozen other pre-war labs she’d come across, except this place was clean and bright, well kept with no sign of decay. And there was something off about it.

She couldn’t place it at first, but it was making gooseflesh rise on her arms, a cold prickling sensation dancing over her skin. Then she realized: there was no one else here. The whole lab was dead quiet except for the tranquil hum of the machines and her own soft footsteps.

Suddenly, a man started talking over a PA system. The sudden loud voice made her jump. 

_I’d wondered if you might make it here. You are quite resourceful. I am known as Father. The Institute is under my guidance._

It was so like what Kellogg had done to her at Fort Hagen, it gave her chills. How had this become a recurring thing in her life—men making her scrabble through their maze while they explained to her how _naïve_ and _futile_ her actions were? Once was enough, good _God_.

Well, nowhere to go but forward. She made her way through the eerie, silent lab. At the end of it was a glass cylindrical chamber that looked like some sort of mod-style elevator. She paused, and the voice came again.

_I know why you’re here. I’d like to discuss things with you, face-to-face. Please, step into the elevator._

The elevator slid open of its own accord, making her fall back a step. Her hand drifted to Deliverer’s holster on instinct, though she didn’t really feel she was in immediate danger. This place just set her on edge.

This posturing was getting on her nerves. She wanted to see a real person she could demand answers from. But of course the Institute was more slippery than that. She’d just have to play along, for now.

She stepped into the elevator. The door slid shut behind her, and it slowly started to descend. Her obedience was rewarded with another message.

_I can only imagine what you’ve heard, what you think of us. I’d like to show you that you may have… the wrong impression._

_Welcome to the Institute._

The dark tunnel she’d been moving through opened up into a bright, airy room. Wanderer took a step forward, placing a hand against the glass. She couldn’t stop her involuntary intake of breath—goddamn them, that was no doubt the reaction they’d been going for.

But it was beautiful, like the end of the world had never happened. She hadn’t thought places like this still existed. There were _green trees_ and manicured grass. Perfect, glittering waterfalls ringed the walls like in some ostentatious five-star hotel. “Father” was still speaking as if he were a pre-war tour guide, but she barely heard him.

Along the walls, between the waterfalls, were what looked like apartments, each one with a balcony overlooking the central chamber. Unlike the lab, this place buzzed with activity. People in white jumpsuits or lab coats were moving around below. A few stopped to look up at her, and she took a quick step away from the glass wall.

This place hadn’t been built as a utilitarian bunker, like the vaults. It had been built with an aesthetic in mind—a sterile, geometric aesthetic, sure, but still. It was designed to be a place where people could thrive, where they were meant to enjoy their lives. It made her deeply homesick.

Ever since the day the bombs fell, every town she’d discovered had been designed to accommodate cold survival and little else. But this bright place… she felt like she could breathe again here. It felt like death wasn’t lurking over her shoulder at every turn.

Then the elevator continued beneath floor level, cutting off her view of the room. Her guard went back up, and she remembered there _was_ danger at every turn here. She was in the house of her enemy. And he was still speaking.

_… our actions are often misinterpreted by those above ground. Someday, perhaps, we can show them what we’ve accomplished. But for now, we must remain underground._

The elevator stopped, and the doors slid open into a long corridor. She sighed and stepped out. The fucking voice followed her down the hallway.

_There’s too much at stake here to risk it all. As you’ve seen, things above are… unstable. I’d like to talk to you about what we can do… for everyone._

_But that can wait. You are here for a specific, very personal reason. You are here for your son._

Wanderer stopped dead in her tracks. She swallowed hard, her heart rate picking up. Was this it? Would it be that easy? It couldn’t be.

The voice was gone. There wasn’t a sound in the hallway except for her unsteady breathing.

“Hello?” she called. No answer.

 _A trap_ , her instincts said, _definitely a trap._ She forced herself to keep walking anyway. She’d known coming here would be a trap, in one way or another. As long as Shaun was safe—as long as she found him again—nothing else mattered.

There was a metal door at the end of the hallway. Her hand hovered over the “open” button on the control panel a long moment before she built up the courage to push it.

And there he was. Sitting cross-legged on the floor as he had been in Kellogg’s memories. She took a shuddering breath. Tears burned her eyes, but she blinked them away.

This wasn’t right. Why was he in a tiny glass room, like an animal on display? Why was he alone? And why did she have the distinct, uncomfortable feeling that she was being watched?

She ignored the warning bells in her head and staggered toward Shaun as though she were hypnotized. She couldn’t take her eyes off him for fear he would slip through her fingers again.

“Shaun?” she said, her voice sounding too high and faint.

The boy raised his head and turned to look at her. It hurt that there wasn’t a shred of recognition or happiness in his expression when his eyes met hers, but she’d been prepared for that.

“Huh? Yes, I’m Shaun,” he said politely but curiously, getting to his feet. They stared at each other through the glass for an awkward minute while she tried to figure out what to say next.

“Um…” was all she could think of. In all the scenarios she’d ran in her head, there had always been someone else with her and Shaun, someone who knew what the hell was going on, who could be a bridge between her and the boy who’d grown from infant to child without knowing his real mother. The Institute had been guarding him so closely that she’d never considered he’d be on his own when she finally found him.

 _Just like bait._ That’s what Kellogg had called it, when the Institute had saddled him with Shaun and left the two of them alone together in Diamond City: _Bait._

Shaun was narrowing his eyes at her. “Who… who are you?” he asked.

Probably better they didn’t cross that bridge just yet. “Shaun, where is everyone?”

Shaun took a step back from the glass. Without thinking, she took a step forward. Fear flashed in his eyes, and her stomach twisted. Why were they making her do this on her own? It wasn’t _fair._

Of course, the Institute had never played fair with her. But she was helpless to keep the pain and longing from her face when she looked at Shaun, and it was freaking him out. Her eyes were hot and scratchy; her breath kept catching like she was about to break into tears.

Shaun took another step back, and this time she managed to keep herself from moving toward him again. He backed into a table and jumped. “Father, what’s going on, what’s happening?” he called out, voice worried.

 _Father_. Hot fury warmed her face. That’s what the voice had called himself—like it was a title—but if that sick fuck had killed Shaun’s _real_ father and taken the role for himself… well, she wasn’t sure how long she’d be able to play nice with him.

 _As long as you have to,_ part of her whispered. The part that the Railroad had trained.

She waited for the voice to answer Shaun, to explain what was happening, but there was nothing. Of course there was nothing. _Useless fucking monsters._ She was on her own. She took control of her breathing, and tried to blink away the redness from her eyes.

She held up her hands, “Hey, it’s okay, Shaun. I just wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

“I’m fine. So… I guess you can leave now,” he said. She didn’t move. His grip on the table tightened, and he was watching her warily. The situation was sliding downhill fast.

Shaun addressed the voice again, more loudly than before. “What’s going on, Father? Father!”

There was still no answer. Hurt and near panic flashed across Shaun’s face as he realized he was all alone with a stranger.

She didn’t know anything about this place, or about Shaun. She had no idea how to diffuse the situation before it got worse, but she had to try.

“Shaun, Father invited me here. I don’t want to upset you; I only wanted to meet you. I’m… a friend.” Did that sound creepy? She was pretty sure it did. With this set up, she wasn’t sure there was a thing she could say that _wouldn’t_ sound weird.

 _Because this is a trap_.

Shaun’s eyes darted to the door of his room, the door behind her, then a door to her right she hadn’t noticed before. He bit his lip nervously, set his jaw, and fixed her in a determined, but frightened, stare. He’d realized he wouldn’t be able to get past her if he ran for it, so his only option was to stay put and hope someone came for him.

For a kid who’d spent most of his life in an underground bunker, he had decent survival instincts. She worried about what that meant.

She wanted to do as he asked and leave him alone to calm down, but she _couldn’t_. She couldn’t leave him when it meant she might miss her one chance to meet him, to become a family again. She had to stay and fix this. She didn’t know how she’d fucked it up so badly.

They’d been silent for too long now, and it was starting to become obvious no one was coming to help him.

“Shaun, I—” she tried again.

Shaun started talking over her, his voice rising. “Stop saying my name. I don’t know you. Go away!”

Shit, she _had_ been saying his name way too much. But couldn’t help it—for more than a year she’d been longing for the day she’d finally be able to use it to talk _to_ him again, instead of just about him.

“I only want to talk—” she said.

But Shaun was beyond listening to her now. He was shouting, “Father, help me! There’s someone here, help!” He climbed up on his bed and retreated into the corner. He pulled his legs against his chest to make himself as small as possible, still glaring at her and shouting for Father.

Wanderer didn’t lose her cool easily. But she felt herself panicking now, as any hope she’d had of reconnecting with her child slipped through her fingers. She hadn’t expected a fairy tale reunion, but… Christ, this was a mess. _This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen_.

Suddenly the door to her right swished open, and a distinguished-looking old man in a lab coat stepped through.

Shaun jumped off the bed and took a few hurried steps toward him. “Father!” Relief cracked his voice. He pointed at Wanderer, making her fall back a step. “She’s trying to take me.”

The man didn’t seem perturbed in the least by the scene he’d walked into. He glanced at the boy and said evenly, “Shaun… S9-23. Recall code: Cirrus.”

Shaun slumped, knees buckling slightly, his arms falling forward, head lolling. Then he went perfectly still.

“What…” Wanderer stepped forward, heart rate rising. She pounded a fist against the glass wall when it stopped her. Shaun didn’t move. She whipped around to face the old man, her throat dry. _Recall code. He said recall code, like Shaun was a…_

“Fascinating… but disappointing. The child’s responses were not at all what I anticipated.” The man was regarding Shaun thoughtfully. Then he turned to face Wanderer conversationally. “He’s a prototype, you understand. We’re only just now beginning to explore the effects of extreme emotional stimuli.”

“What?” Wanderer said again, her voice rough with anger this time instead of fear.

She stared at the motionless child. She’d thought... she’d thought he was _Shaun,_ at _last._ But he was standing there, slumped over and still as death. This wasn’t her son. He didn’t even look alive.

She glared at the man. “So you left him all alone? You _scared_ him _._ And you made me believe…” She ran her hands through her hair. _“Why?_ ” she demanded.

He raised his hands, attempting to placate her. “Please, try and keep an open mind. I recognize that you are emotional, and that your journey here has been fraught with challenges. Let’s start anew. I am Father. Welcome to the Institute.” He spread his hands before him, like he was offering her some great bounty.

The patronizing tone, the way he was acting like he was offering her something priceless—she couldn’t stand it. She strode over to him and grabbed a fistful of his shirt. She closed her other hand around Deliverer’s grip, but stopped herself from drawing on the old man. He was so… serene. She didn’t want to escalate things just yet. But, _God,_ it was tempting to shove her gun in his face, just to see him flinch.

“Give me Shaun. The _real_ Shaun. _Now_ ,” she said.

“I know, I know. You’ve gone to such lengths to find him.” He was staring levelly back at her, as if they were two adults having a normal conversation. He didn’t feel threatened by her at all—he was completely certain she wouldn’t shoot him.

Which, _obviously_ , she wasn’t going to shoot him. Not when it could jeopardize her chance of finding Shaun. But the fact that he could read her so clearly was fucking frustrating.

He glanced pointedly at her hand on his shirt, then met her eyes again. He said, “I imagine your dealings on the surface require this… posturing. But it is hardly necessary here. We can speak like civilized people.”

Now he was just messing with her. Her grip on his shirt tightened. Then she took a deep breath and let him go. She patted his chest to smooth the wrinkles from his clothes, and took a step away. She released her grip on the gun and raised her hands.

“Right. Civilized _._ I know how _civilized_ you are, kidnapping babies and killing unarmed men. It’s so _refreshing_ not to deal with those big, bad surface dwellers.”

Her scathing tone didn’t have any effect on him. He said, “I understand why you believe that, but I need you to realize that this… situation is far more complicated than you could have imagined.”

She clenched her fists and took another deep breath, trying to reign in her anger. He was speaking so calmly and not giving her any straight answers—and he was acting like _she_ was the unreasonable one. She'd come so far, she'd thought she was so _close_ , but no matter how hard she pushed herself, Shaun was always just out of reach. It felt like she was never going to find him.  

She started pacing. _Stop. Pacing_. But her legs wouldn’t listen. _This is a test, they’re trying to rattle you, and you’re letting them._ It was no good—she couldn’t stay still with her heart hammering this hard.

At least the old man was starting to look concerned now. She knew how she must look—wild and dangerous, crackling with nervous energy. Far from _civilized_ , that was certain.

They wanted to “welcome” her here and then screw with her head? Well, this is what they got.

He was watching her move back and forth, eyes cautious. “I only ask for a chance to explain. I have no intention of keeping you from your son.” 

“But that’s exactly what you’re _doing,_ ” she stopped pacing to snarl at him. She realized with horror that tears were running down her cheeks. She turned and wiped them away with her jacket sleeve. Then, when she couldn’t stop them, she buried her face in the crook of her arm like a child and tried to collect herself, taking deep, shaky breaths.

She’d thought the Wasteland had made her harder, tougher, re-forged her strong as steel and ready for anything. But she’d been in the Institute barely an hour and she was already falling into a tailspin. They’d stripped her bare again, turned her into the terrified, bereaved mother she’d been in Vault 111 when they’d torn apart her family in front of her eyes.

 _Keep it together, you’re way too close to lose it now._ She took several more deep breaths, her shoulders shaking.

“I can explain all of this. Isn’t that what you came here for?” the old man said. His voice wasn’t so aloof now. He sounded almost compassionate. She looked up at him.

“Okay, let’s talk. I want answers, asshole. Now.” _Play nice, remember,_ she told herself too late.

The man recoiled, pulling a face. “Under the circumstances, I will forgive your… vulgarity,” he said.

What the hell? _That_ was what got a reaction from him? The look on his face was almost funny—like he was the king of England and she’d insulted him by picking up the wrong fork, or using the wrong title. It pissed her off. He had _no_ right to be offended by _her,_ for fuck’s sake _._

She said, “Thanks, bud. I nearly lost my moral center there. I mean, I’ve never _kidnapped a baby_ before _,_ but God for- _fucking-_ bid that I start swearing in front of old people.”

She wished instantly that she could take back the words. This was no way to get Shaun back; this would only rile him up more. But instead, the man’s lips quirked in amusement.

“You have a sense of humor,” he said. Not dryly, as she would have, but faintly surprised and pleased, like he’d just learned something new about her and found it interesting. Who the hell _was_ this guy?

It was time to find out. There was something about him that disarmed her, and she didn’t like it. There was something about his eyes, or… something. It was hard to stay keyed up when he was so calm and looking at her like… like he was happy to see her. But that didn’t make sense. She just couldn’t get a bead on him.

At least he was being patient with her. He was _fatherly;_ she’d give him that—even if he was a baby-stealing, husband-murdering asshole.

“All right, I’ve got that out of my system. I’m listening now,” she said. Her voice sounded impressively level-headed, but her heart was still pounding.

The man nodded, smiling faintly. He said, “You have traveled very far, and suffered a great deal to find your son. Well, your tenacity and dedication have been rewarded.” He drew his shoulders back, lifted his chin. “It’s good to finally meet you, after all this time.” He held a hand to his chest. “It’s me. I’m Shaun. I am… your son.”

A long minute of silence passed.

“You’re… Shaun. My son, Shaun,” she repeated skeptically. She narrowed her eyes, trying to spot the sure signs he was lying, but got nothing. There was something new in his expression, a rawness and uncertainty, like her reaction really did matter to him.

And it was then, when she was searching his face so closely, that she realized why she’d been so thrown by him. He looked like _Nate._ A _lot_ like Nate. He had Nate’s dark brown eyes and prominent brow, his strong jaw, the same _look_ on his face that she’d seen a thousand times before. The resemblance took the wind out of her.

She’d stumbled out of Vault 111 not knowing how much time had passed, how far behind Shaun’s kidnappers she was. Until Valentine had picked up Kellogg’s trail, she’d worried that she’d woken up years too late.

And she’d been right. Everything she’d endured since that first day in the fallout, it had all been a farce. The boy _had_ been bait—a cruel trick to make her believe that there was still a chance she could set things right.

“It’s… really you,” she said.

“Yes, it is,” he said softly.

She would demand more answers later; she’d make him explain everything that had happened. But she already believed him.

It made some kind of sense that this had been the answer all along. Of course, her little boy had never been waiting for her at the end of the rainbow. All the desperate prayers she’d made during long, sleepless nights— _please just let him be alive, please just let him be unhurt, please just let him be safe—_ had been answered like a devil’s bargain. She’d been given all she’d asked for, but nothing she’d wanted.

She was a fool to have spent all this time among the death and pain that filled the Commonwealth to bursting and still believe she could one day be whole again.

Shaun gestured to the room behind him. “Come. We have much to talk about, and I’m certain you have questions for me.”

She didn’t move. “Why did you want me here? Do you really expect me to trust the Institute, after everything they’ve done?”

He’d expected her to say that. He nodded and took a step closer to her.

“I simply ask that you give the Institute… me… a chance. We really do have humanity’s best interest as heart. Whatever you’ve seen or heard, I know I can convince you of that. Just…give me time.”

That hopeful note in his voice, the determined look on his face—this was a better in than she could have hoped for. It was good news for the Railroad, but… she couldn’t feel excited about it now. She couldn’t really feel anything right now.

She was struggling to find purchase; everything she’d believed about Shaun was suddenly turning on its head. But the Railroad was still depending on her. No matter how adrift she felt, she wasn’t going to let them down.

She tried to imagine what Deacon would do. It was hard to picture him in this place, but thinking of him helped to quell her distress. He wouldn't have let them get inside his head, she knew that much. If she wanted to see him again, she had to be strong. The Institute would try to make her into someone else, someone who served their purpose. She wouldn’t let them, no matter what they threw at her.

She wasn't the person she'd been when she'd woken up in Vault 111, alone and afraid and left with nothing. She was an agent now—on a mission. Everything else had blown up in her face, but that was still true. 

Shaun continued, “I’ve been a part of something amazing here. I’ve helped to build a life for myself, and the people of the Institute… and now, after all these years, you have an opportunity to help with that. Doesn’t that intrigue you? Isn’t that what you want?”

“Is… that really what you want?”

He smiled. “Yes, it is. Working together would benefit us both.”

She was silent a long moment, because he probably expected her to think it over for at least a little while. And even though it wasn’t real, she didn’t have the stomach to agree too quickly to joining the Institute.

At last, she took a deep breath. “All right,” she told him.

He smiled. “Thank you. The Institute will be your home now, as much as it is mine.”

She was about to follow him out of the room, but the still, small figure caught her eye as she moved past, and stopped her in her tracks. She had to ask.

“Shaun, about this synth…”

His face lit up. “You mean the child? It’s a fascinating project, really. There are issues to be solved, of course, but we’ve made remarkable progress.”

“It… seems like a strange choice. On more than one level,” she said, trying to keep her voice tactful.

His excitement waned a little. “I can understand how it might seem that way. It was… it is something new. I’ll make sure it’s brought back online in the near future. You’ll have the opportunity to interact with him further.”

“Oh.” She’d been afraid of that.

He was watching her closely. “I’ll admit I’m curious. As a parent looking for her child… looking for the younger version of me… What did you think? Do you think you could… love him? Like you would a real boy?”

She wished now that she hadn’t said anything. She didn’t want to be reminded what she’d lost—what she’d almost had—or be a part of whatever horrible experiments they had planned for the boy. But she had to say something.

She opted for a non-answer. “You really believe a human could love a synth?”

Shaun tilted his head thoughtfully. “That’s… a difficult question. I suppose it depends on how closely we’ve managed to mimic human behavior and emotion. Yours is a unique position. You may be the only one that’s truly able to answer these questions right now.”

She looked away from him, back to the synth child, and didn’t say anything.

After a moment he said, “I won’t claim to know everything you’re feeling, but… if in some small way the boy’s presence can help, I hope you’ll keep an open mind.”

“All right,” she said. She didn’t want to see the kid ever again—and she wanted to see him every day. He wasn't her son, but he _was_ the boy she'd been chasing for months, ever since she'd first seen him in Kellogg's memories. She wanted to know what he was like. But she couldn't afford to get too close.

Shaun started toward the door again, and then realized she wasn’t following. He turned back to her. “Take your time. Join me when you’re ready, Mother.”

She winced. “Please, don’t call me that. For now, just… call me Helena.”

“Of course. It’s too soon.” Something flickered over his face. She didn’t quite catch what it was—rejection, embarrassment? Then he turned away, and left her alone.

She didn’t know how long she stood there, looking at the boy she’d thought was her son, feeling dazed—until she realized her lower back and the heels of her feet had started to ache, so, probably _too_ long.

She touched the glass again. She felt the urge to say, _I’m sorry,_ or, _I love you so much_ to the motionless figure on the other side _—_ the things she’d wanted to say to Shaun once she’d explained to him who she was. But that was stupid, and pointless.

She turned on her heel and walked through the open door after Shaun.

She had only one purpose now. She was years too late for her son, but she wouldn’t fail the Railroad. Whatever it took.


	9. Chapter 9

It was drizzling in Diamond City. The sun had nearly set, and a low fog had settled over the streets, turning the city strange and unfamiliar.

“So this is fun,” Deacon said to no one.

He was leaning against an alley wall, arms folded over his chest. With things quiet on the Institute front, Deacon was back running intel, out on his own in the wide, wide ’Wealth. Just the way he liked it.

“So fucking fun!” he said with all the false enthusiasm he could muster. The rainfall wasn’t heavy, but he’d been out here for hours, and his coat was soaked through.

Flying solo, no strings. Just the way he’d _used to_ like it. But now, it didn’t feel right. Where was his edge? The buzz of adrenaline he usually got in Diamond City, the viper’s nest itself. Where was the free and easy feel of slipping from cover to cover, with nothing and no one weighing him down?

All he felt was a dull but ever-present sense of loss—a keen awareness of the emptiness in his days that used to be filled by Wanderer’s easy banter, her sharp mind, and quick smile. Everywhere he went, he couldn’t shake the feeling he’d forgotten something—that some _one_ was missing. It felt… oh shit _._

He was lonely.

Deacon hadn’t been _lonely_ since he’d taken over intel for the Railroad. Even when Wanderer had been on probation and he’d been working on his own, it hadn’t felt like this. He’d thought that meant partnering up hadn’t changed him. But now she was gone—maybe for good—and he knew: it _had_ changed him.

Deacon pulled his coat tighter, even though he knew trying to keep out the chill was useless at this point. Tonight he was wearing drifter clothes instead of his favorite Diamond City Security disguise. He needed to lay extra low in Diamond City right now. Word on the street was, Piper Wright was looking for him.

She’d actually managed to track him down once before when he’d showed up on her turf, and he did _not_ want her to know he made a habit of impersonating an officer. It’d be all over the city, and it would be tricky to pull off that disguise with the other security officers on the lookout.

Usually, he’d just schedule another face change if he was worried about something like that, but… he wanted Wanderer to see a familiar face when she came back. He wanted there to be recognition in her eyes when she saw him again.

Deacon closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall, trying not to think about her anymore. It wouldn’t do any good—he couldn’t change what happened. And he couldn’t afford to have his head in the clouds when he was undercover on his own.

He was really off his game lately. It wasn’t safe, wasn’t smart, carrying on like this, but he loathed the idea of heading back to HQ alone. There’d be no rest there, either.

Wanderer had ten hours until the Railroad declared her AWOL, Dez issued a capture or kill order to all hands, and they moved HQ to somewhere she’d never heard of. Deacon hadn’t slept in days.

Yeah… it wasn’t great. And he didn’t know what to do about it except power through the next ten hours, because the minute he stopped working, his mind started going a hundred miles an hour, feeding his worst fears.

Fears like, _she’s been dead since the day she left,_ or _she’s joined your enemy,_ or _they’re torturing her right now and you’re here doing nothing,_ or _she’s alive and well and doing her best but Dez hasn’t given her enough_ time _._

Deacon’s stomach growled, pulling him from his thoughts. He realized he was hungry enough to eat a Radstag whole. He turned his collar up and a pulled his hat low, heading to Takahashi’s noodle stand. His socks were soaked through, and sloshed inside his shoes as he walked. The fog muffled the ambient sounds of the city, making the normally busy streets feel too empty and silent.

There weren’t many customers at Takahashi’s counter with the weather like this. Deacon slid onto an empty stool and placed his order. He rested his forehead in his hands and had nearly drifted off when the clatter of a bowl being set in front of him jolted him awake. The steam from the noodles warmed his face, and they smelled _so damn good._ He lifted his fork to dig in.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the Man of Mystery himself,” a familiar voice said.

Deacon closed his eyes. _Oh, no._ He turned to find Piper standing there, hands on her hips and looking like she was ready for a fight.

Deacon said, “Nothing mysterious about me. Just a guy eating a cup of noodles.”

“What have you done with Blue?”

Piper didn’t beat around the bush when she was following a lead. But it was really rude of her to ruin his appetite like that.

“Blue who?” he asked.

Piper ignored that. “She was my best lead on the Institute, and after being joined at the hip to you for months, she’s disappeared into thin air. What gives?”

Deacon knew Wanderer was more to Piper than a lead. The two of them had gotten close while Wanderer was living in Diamond City, working cases with Valentine. But Piper liked to keep her cards close to her chest. Well, so did he.

“Hey, have you been stalking her? Because, if you have, I think we should start a fan club,” he said.

“You haven’t gotten her killed, I hope?” Piper said.

“I couldn’t really say,” Deacon said evasively, but it was the goddamn truth.

“If you have, you’re never gonna hear the end of it, Deacon. I hope you know that.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, Piper.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “So _tell_ me. Where is she?”

Deacon moved the noodles around the bowl, but his appetite wasn’t coming back any time soon, and the smell was just making his stomach turn. Now he was thinking of the naked fear in her eyes as she’d stood alone on the Relay platform, and the radiant smile she’d given him after he’d called her _his girl_.

 _Goddamn it._ No matter how hard he tried to run from them, thoughts of her kept sneaking on him. They’d never, ever leave him.

He said, “Piper, I’ll make you a deal. Just give me 24 hours, then I’ll tell you everything I know about it.”

“Yeah, like I haven’t heard _that_ one before.”

“I mean it, Piper.” He let some genuine fatigue slip into his voice, and she softened a little. Piper was a ruthless reporter, but she was also a loyal friend. If it looked like someone was hurting, she usually didn’t push them too hard. And Deacon looked downright pathetic right now.

“I’m not buying,” she said, but he caught that beat of hesitation before she answered.

“I promise,” Deacon said in his most earnest voice.

Piper was watching him closely. “Deacon, are you, um… feeling okay?”

Deacon slid his fingers beneath his sunglasses to rub his eyes. He said wearily, “Look, I’ll tell you what you want to know, but you _have_ to stop asking me questions until then. All right?”

“Okay, fine. You’ve got a deal. But only because you look like a really sad puppy someone left out in the rain.” He raised his eyebrows at her, and she shrugged. "Call me a dog person."

Normally, Deacon couldn’t stomach accepting pity. But today, he’d take what he could get. “Thanks, Piper,” he said, and they shook on it.

“You got it,” she said, tipping her newsboy cap to him. “I’ll see you at Publick Occurrences in 24 hours for the scoop,” she called, walking backward. Then she turned smartly on her heel and walked away.

Well, that’d teach Piper to make a deal with him. Deacon sighed. That was gonna bite him in the ass later. But he’d known it would get her off his back, and he’d _really_ needed some breathing space. His stamina was shot to hell, and Piper’s never seemed to run out.

He gave Piper the runaround about anything remotely touching the Railroad, but the two of them actually did swap intel a lot. They were both too well informed to ignore each other for long. When he told her he had something for her, he usually delivered. He tried not to lie to her too much (at least not such an outright lie that she'd find him out) because the reporter _hated_ being lied to. And she held a grudge for a long damn time.

Deacon gave up on the noodles and went back to making his rounds of the city. If something big was happening inside the Institute, the ripples were most likely to surface here. But he’d been here for days and he still had _nothing_. She was gone without a trace.

In a few hours, he’d head back to HQ to face the music. He just had to make it through one more night, and this would all be over—one way or another. Then maybe he could finally _sleep_ before he figured out what to do next.

She had to come back. Wanderer had never let him down before, and now would be a hell of a time to start.

****

HQ was in even worse shape than Deacon had expected. He was holed up in the situation room with Dez and Carrington, supposedly discussing possible courses of action. But mostly it was just arguing, the discussion getting more and more heated as the minutes ticked by. Deacon traced figure eight patterns on the table while the other two talked, trying to keep himself from completely checking out.

Carrington had never believed Wanderer would successfully infiltrate the Institute, and he’d been twitchier with each passing hour. He wanted to leave for a new HQ now, before the deadline was even up.

Normally Deacon would have a thing or two to say about _that,_ but he wasn’t up for an argument right now. Besides, he knew Dez wouldn’t let Carrington talk her into jumping the gun. She’d set her deadline for a reason—she knew the toll it would take on their people to move house. It had been less than a year since the Switchboard, and they were still getting settled into the Church. So Deacon let his thoughts wander.

 _What had he done?_ What if she really wasn’t coming back? He’d been so certain she would. He’d thought the bad luck that had plagued him since the almighty clusterfuck at the Switchboard had finally run out. This had been his last, golden opportunity, and all the answers had been falling right into his lap.

He should have known better than to trust it.

But what was he supposed to do? Watch the Railroad’s once-in-a-lifetime chance to get into the Institute come and go without even trying to take it? _Not_ help Wanderer find her son?

 _I had to do it_.

“What was that, Deacon?” Dez asked.

Both Dez and Carrington were staring at him. But they were angled toward each other like they’d been in the middle of a conversation he should have been listening to… Oh yeah, they’d been arguing about whether or not they should run now and leave Wanderer in the lurch. Jesus, he really couldn't focus tonight.

“You were mumbling just now,” Carrington said.

“You must have been hearing things, Doc."

Carrington gave Dez an _I told you so_ look. He said, “Your dream team is falling apart. I suggest you cut your losses now, or it’ll be the entire Railroad next.” He turned on his heel and stalked out.

Dez sighed and took the seat across from Deacon. She looked tired, really tired. Deacon felt a brief pang of guilt. He should have been here at HQ, shoring her up, reassuring her that his plan was going just fine, nothing to worry about, Wanderer would turn up in her own time.

But he really hadn’t been in the mood for reassuring anyone.

Dez was watching him expectantly, worry creasing the corners of her mouth. Oh, shit. Had she asked him a question? What did she say what did she say… nope, it wasn’t there—gone from his head entirely. So was his usual collection of wisecracks. He’d have to fess up he hadn’t heard.

“What did you say?” he asked.

The worry lines deepened. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Oh.”

She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms, regarding him carefully. “I'm not blind, Deacon. I can see you’re running yourself ragged over this. Carrington’s not all wrong.”

Deacon looked away and didn’t answer. Which was way out of character for him, and it must be making Dez all kinds of anxious. But, hell, he’d never realized how much _energy_ it took to lie and joke around and smile all the time. It had always come so easy before.

“Try to be straight with me for once, Deacon. What are the odds that Wanderer makes the deadline?” Dez said.

“I’ve never been an odds man, boss. You want the numbers? Ask P.A.M.,” Deacon said.

“She doesn’t have enough data to make a viable prediction.”

“Right, so her answer hasn’t changed, and neither has mine.”

“Wanderer has six hours left,” Dez said.

“Yep.”

“And you really think she’s coming back? Or at this point are you just hoping?”

“Dez, this is the Institute we’re talking about. The _only_ way we ever get ahead is by taking a crazy-ass gamble and wishing for the best. So, here’s hoping, I guess.”

He pantomimed raising a glass to her. She lifted an eyebrow at him, but she didn’t give him any of her _it will work because it must,_ hope-springs-eternal crap she used on everyone else. Deep down, she knew he was right.

That was why Carrington would become Railroad Alpha over Deacon’s dead body, with his _superior strategy_ and his _tactical approach_. Taking on the Institute wasn’t a game of chess where the cleverest opponent won the match. It was high-stakes roulette, with a dirty croupier at the wheel. You didn’t win that game unless you had an ungodly amount of luck.

Dez understood that. She knew that the right person’s gut feeling was sometimes worth more than any intel. That sometimes you had to let the rules be bent. Carrington had always been too smart for his own good.

“And you haven’t been listening to a word I just said, have you?” Dez was saying.

Oops. Fuck, since when had just _talking_ to people become so hard? Those sleepless nights were finally catching up with him. Deacon grasped for something that Dez was likely to have been talking about. She liked to fall back on old speeches when she was really stressed. “You were saying that this isn’t the Railroad’s darkest hour. We’ll make it through.”

Dez blinked. “Oh. I apologize. You were listening.”

No _way_. He’d got it right. Sometimes he amazed even himself with his talent for bullshitting. He grinned, and Dez smiled back wearily.

She sighed and said, “You know, I’m going to need you back after this. Especially if Wanderer is out of the picture.”

That nearly wiped the grin off his face— _especially if Wanderer is out of the picture_ —but he was careful not to let his panic show. If he didn’t have the energy to be smartass Deacon, at least he could still pull off Dez’s right-hand man Deacon.

He said, “Hey, I haven’t gone anywhere, boss.”

“I’m not so sure. You don't sound like yourself.”

Deacon didn’t know what to say in response to that. Luckily, he was spared having to answer. Just then Drummer Boy stumbled into the room, breathless and flushed. Deacon and Dez jumped to their feet, watching him with concern.

“Dez, Wanderer made the drop!” Drummer Boy said, smiling wide. It took a few seconds for his words to register. When they did, Deacon nearly sobbed in relief.

Dez leaned forward, bracing her hands flat against the table and letting out a long, relieved breath. “Oh. Thank. God.”

Drummer Boy caught sight of Deacon, and his face brightened. “Deacon, Wanderer made the drop!”

“I heard, buddy,” Deacon said. He was grinning back, his spirits lifting so fast it left him a little dizzy. He knew he wasn’t going to get away with how hard he’d been pushing himself over the past week, but he had his second wind, and for now that was all he needed.

Deacon turned to Dez and said slyly. “Oh, I am giving Carrington so much shit for this. _Your dream team’s falling apart._ Ha! Your dream team just made the biggest brake in Railroad history.”

“She made the drop, but celebration is still premature,” Dez said, level-headed as always. That was just fine, she wasn’t going to drag Deacon’s mood down.

“For you, maybe. For me, it’s time to cash in on some bets,” he said.

His change in energy was so drastic that it was throwing Dez off. She was looking at him like, _were you messing with me just now?_ Deacon decided that letting her think he had been would suit him just fine.

“Drummer Boy, bring her in,” Dez said. Drummer’s smile dimmed and his eyes darted to a Deacon in a way he didn’t like at all.

“You…might want to read her message first. Here, I’ve got it decoded for you.” He fished a folded piece of paper from his pocket and offered it to Dez.

Dez took the note from Drummer and showed it to Deacon so they could read it together.

_Can get in and out. Caution: Courser chip in Pip Boy._

Dez exchanged a look with him, her eyes wide with suspicion and fear. Deacon wasn’t sure what he’d expected the message to say, but this wasn’t it. Wanderer had kept it short and sweet like he’d told her to, but this was… weird. A little off.

Had the Institute _given_ her a Courser chip? Why? And if she’d stolen one, _why?_ It was a risk that wasn’t really worth the reward, as far as Deacon could work out.

“What do you think?” Dez asked.

He could hear the apprehension in her voice. The message had Dez skittish. But Deacon was game for another risky roll of the dice. Infiltrating the Institute was completely new territory. At first, everything was bound to seem off kilter.

And, yeah, he really, _really_ wanted to see Wanderer again. His heart was full and thudding in his chest, stomach twisting in impatient knots. She was _back_.

He told Dez, “I think we better bring the woman in. Sounds like she’s got one hell of a story.”


	10. Chapter 10

Wanderer was standing in the murky glow of a streetlight in the wilds of downtown Boston, leaning against the light post. It was raining tonight—because of fucking _course_ it was.

She had found the only light still working on the street. It was foggy tonight, and she wanted to make sure anyone looking had no trouble finding her. She didn’t even care that it made her an easy target for any raider or scavver who happened by. She wanted this _over,_ and she was under strict orders not to approach any Railroad asset until an agent had contacted her first.

She’d left her dead drop nearly an hour ago. They were late.

Wanderer flipped up her collar to keep the water from trickling down her neck. A wide-brimmed fedora was keeping the water off her face. She’d taken the large trench coat and hat from a stash the Institute used to dress the synths they sent topside. It was silly, but the oversized coat made her feel sheltered and a little safer on the lonely street.

She cast a cautious glance down the road, her hand on her gun, just in case there was trouble. The weather seemed to be keeping even the raiders off the streets tonight, but it was hard to hear beyond the steady patter of rain, or make out distant shapes through the shifting fog.

She heard a sharp whistle from behind her. She turned to look with a flutter of excitement. A man was walking toward her up the dark alley, hat pulled low over his eyes, hands in his pockets.    

“Deacon?” she asked, standing up straight. The man froze in his tracks. Shit. She had to remember who she was dealing with—how flighty the Railroad could be. She tried again. “Do you have a Geiger counter?”

“Mine is in the shop,” he said. Not Deacon. But she’d known that already, as soon as he’d frozen in place like a wary animal instead of striding into the circle of light with her, grinning and cocksure and _wonderful_. Damn, she missed that man.

The figure in the shadows stepped closer, and she could finally make out his face.

“Good to see you again, Guy,” she said.

He nodded briefly to her, and was straight to business. “I’ve been asked to take a walk with your Pip Boy.”

She hesitated only a moment before unlatching the Pip Boy and handing it to him. He fastened it around his arm and tugged his coat sleeve down over it.

Guy jerked a thumb the building behind him. “My people are waiting to meet you on the second floor.” He paused. “You do something to piss Dez off? Because they have some strange orders.”

“Quit messing with me,” she said, scowling.

“I’m not.”

“Ah. Great.”

The corner of his mouth twisted up a bit—the Guy equivalent of a grin. “Don’t worry about it. The boss is always careful around agents coming out of deep cover,” he said, casting a curious glance at her. 

“Huh,” she said. He was fishing for info, but she wasn't in a chatty mood tonight. She was twitchy and irritated and cold, and she just wanted to collapse on a shitty mattress at HQ and sleep for year.

Guy sensed her mood, and switched to a more personable tack. “It’s good you’re back. HQ missed you… some of them more than others.”

Well, “personable” had never really been Guy’s forte, but it was nice of him to try. She said, “Not sure what you're getting at. Was Carrington getting ready to dance on my grave, or has Deacon been pining for me this whole time?”

She'd meant it as a joke, but he just gave her an enigmatic look, and turned away with a wave. “Take care, Wanderer. I’ll look after your gadget for now.”

Wanderer watched him disappear into the fog. She stood under the streetlight a moment more, listening to the rain patter against the brim of her hat. Then she slipped into the shadows, too.

It was dark inside the building Guy had pointed out to her. When she found the agents on the second floor, she jumped a foot in the air like a startled cat before realizing who they were. She was jumpy as hell tonight—If she didn't get some real sleep soon, she was going to turn into a proper wreck.

“Put this on,” one of the agents said, handing her a piece of cloth.

Wanderer looked down at the coarse, dark fabric, her stomach twisting. It looked like an executioner’s hood.

Of course, the Railroad wasn’t going to simply welcome her back with open arms. They were going to put her through their paranoid song and dance first.

She took a deep breath and reminded herself that they had good reason to. But after seven days in deep cover for the first time and… everything with Shaun, she was at the edge of her endurance. Were they really planning to march her through the streets of post-war Boston in a _blindfold_?

“I don’t suppose you’re throwing me a surprise party,” she said wryly. The agents exchanged a confused look, like she was talking nonsense. Wanderer sighed and pulled the hood over her head. Deacon would have gotten it.

“Don’t worry, Wanderer. We’ll look after you,” one of the agents said kindly. But the hands on her arms felt rough and wary rather than comforting as they escorted her into the night.

****

She was sitting in a bright room, and people were moving around her.

She was pretty sure Guy’s teammates had tried to misdirect her so she wouldn’t guess where they were going, but she hadn’t even tried to figure it out. After a week of working her senses overtime, she was more than ready to surrender herself to whatever paranoid whims the Railroad planned to subject her to next.

She wasn’t tied up or restrained (she would have kicked up a fuss if they’d tried to do _that_ ), but she figured she’d better wait for them to make the first move. After a minute, someone lifted the hood from her face.

She blinked into the light for a few moments. She was in the situation room, back at HQ. Dez and Carrington were sitting across the table from her. He was glowering, one leg jittering up and down. Dez was watching her with apparent calm, lazily smoking a cigarette, but she was sitting ramrod straight. P.A.M. was standing in the background, just… being P.A.M.

Deacon was leaning against the side of the table, arms folded over his chest, legs crossed casually. When he saw her looking at him, his lips quirked into a grin, and he gave her an adorable wave with one hand.

She smiled, and just barely bit back a laugh of relief and happiness. She was aching to wrap her arms around his neck, to feel the familiar warmth of him. But the way Dez and Carrington were watching her, this felt like some sort of test. Maybe they were waiting to see if she recognized the Church? A synth replacement likely wouldn’t know where they were. She hated these guessing games.

She said, “It’s good to be back at HQ. The vibes I was getting, I was starting to think you were gonna take me out back and shoot me.”

Deacon and Dez exchanged a look. He said, “Yeah… look, partner. The situation’s changed. You’re off this case.”

The smile slipped from her face, cold apprehension stirring in her stomach. Had she missed the deadline after all? She knew she was cutting it close, but…

“Figured we’d give Carrington a shot at it, after all the shit he’s been talking this week,” Deacon continued.

“You motherfucker _,_ ” Wanderer said, letting out a deep breath. “Don’t _scare_ me like that.”

Deacon broke out in a grin. “Aw man, your _face_. One week without me, and you’ve completely lost your edge.” He jumped back, laughing, as she tried to kick his legs.

Wanderer sighed. The asshole was happy to see her; he was just expressing it in his usual, slightly infuriating way.

“Christ, I forgot you were such a headache,” she told him.

“Absence makes the heart grow fond, they say.” Deacon shrugged as he leaned back against the table again.

“If you two are finished, maybe we can return to the task at hand,” Carrington said, giving Deacon the stink eye and trying to make it look dignified.

Wanderer settled back into her seat. Deacon had managed to diffuse some of the tension in the room. Carrington was still watching her through narrowed eyes, but his leg had stopped bouncing a mile a minute. A little of the tension was gone from Dez’s shoulders. Sure, Wanderer’s heart was still racing like a rabbit’s thanks to Deacon, but at least he’d broken the ice.

“It’s really, really good to see you,” Dez said.

Wanderer blushed. Dez didn’t indulge in displays of affection very often, but she looked genuinely happy, and her voice was kind. It made Wanderer almost forgive her for the shitty welcome home.

“You’ll have twenty four hours here at HQ to debrief and rest, then you’re back in deep cover and you don’t come within ten miles of the Church unless an agent _other_ than Deacon tells you you’re cleared. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”      

“Effective immediately, Deacon is your lead contact on this op. You’ll be reporting directly to him,” Dez said.

Wanderer looked to Deacon, quirking an eyebrow. “Like my handler, you mean?”

The grin he gave her, playful and suggestive, stirred a fire deep in her stomach, its warmth radiating up to her cheeks, making her heart pound. Her face was still flushed from the stroll Guy’s teammates had taken her on, and she hoped it disguised her blush.

She needn’t have worried. The others were preoccupied with their own questions. Dez said, “What’s the story with the Pip Boy?”

Right. The Courser chip. That’s what had Dez and Carrington so skittish. Dez didn’t want an active courser chip anywhere near the Church, especially since Wanderer had yet to be welcomed back into the fold.

“The Courser chip is my ticket in and out of the Institute. Whenever I want.”

Carrington said, “And they just hand those out like candy, do they?”

Wanderer cut him a look, but didn’t answer. She wasn’t in the mood for his browbeating tonight. And she couldn’t answer that question without getting into details she’d rather leave alone for right now. She said to Dez, “What do you want to know?”

Dez leaned forward, eyes hungry. “Everything. Start with whatever comes to your head. You can fill in any gaps tomorrow after you’ve rested up. Just start talking.”

So she did, leaving out a few important details for now. Dez and Carrington were riveted, but Deacon must have smelled something fishy. She knew he could sense when she glossed over _it_ , could see all the holes in her story, clear as day. She could see it winding him up more and more. It was putting her on edge, too.

At last, he interrupted her. “Wanderer, did you find Shaun?”

She blinked at him stupidly, as if he’d slapped her. As if she hadn’t been expecting the question for the last half hour. But this was the one thing she'd been trying _not_ to think about too much since her return topside. The one thing she didn't want to process under Dez and Carrington's scrutiny. But it would be too suspicious to dodge Deacon's question now.

“Yes,” she said, her voice taught and strange.

Deacon paled. She could see that, probably for the first time since she’d met him, he couldn’t get a clear read on her. He asked, “What did they do to him?”

She could feel herself smiling inexplicably. Then—because it was a _little_ funny, the look on their faces, the absurdity of her situation—she started to laugh. The open-mouthed stare Deacon gave her in response only made her laugh harder, and all the pent up emotion from the past week started breaking over her in waves.

She laughed until tears streamed down her face, her abs hurt, her breath came in messy heaves. She wasn’t sure anymore if she was laughing or sobbing. It was a little embarrassing, breaking down in front of Dez and Carrington like this, but after seven days alone undercover, on her guard at all times, it was extremely cathartic.

So she just sat back and laughed herself out.

When she’d finally finished, she could tell by the tense silence that followed her outburst that she was going to have to be the one to speak first. She wiped her eyes, trying to reign in the stray chuckles that followed her fit. “Sorry, but I needed that.”

Carrington was staring at her like her head had spun around 360 degrees. Dez looked equal parts concerned and wary, and Deacon… well, she wasn’t entirely sure.

He said, “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

Dez shot him a sharp look, but he held up a hand to her, and she didn’t say anything to contradict him. Wanderer could guess what that exchange meant: _more details to come._

Dez said, “Excellent work, Wanderer. This is more than we could have hoped for. Now get some rest.”

Wanderer just nodded in response. Dez seemed to understand she needed space; she stood and left the room. After several confused seconds, Carrington followed. She and Deacon sat in silence for a minute. She willed him not to ask her about Shaun again. She felt burned-out and fragile, and the last thing she wanted was to have another meltdown in front of him. 

Deacon said, “Sorry about the, uh… welcome party. Not my idea.”

“Don’t worry; I get it.”

“My idea was party hats, cocktails, and maybe a piñata, in case we wanted to get crazy. But the local Super Duper Mart was fresh out. They’ve really lowered their standards since doomsday, let me tell you.”

He was rambling a little, and it was warming her heart. She’d missed this. But last of her energy was quickly fizzling out, and she just wanted this night to end. She sighed wearily, braced her hands against the table, and pushed herself to her feet.

The second she was up, Deacon pulled her into a hug, squeezing her tight. She stood frozen for a second, her face flushed in surprise and pleasure—Deacon was _not_ the hugging type, normally. He buried his face in her neck, the plastic of his sunglasses pressing uncomfortably into her skin. But she didn’t mind a bit.

She hugged him back hard, shutting her eyes tight to keep tears from welling up. It had been a god-awful week, and she’d needed this. She wanted to stay in Deacon’s arms for hours—to not have to sort through her messy feelings about her time undercover, or think about the work that lay ahead of her. It had been a long time since she’d let herself fully enjoy a moment like this. She’d forgotten what it was like to be comforted by someone you’d been longing for, how good it felt.

Wanderer opened her eyes to find P.A.M. watching them.

Shit. It was really easy to forget P.A.M. was there. She never talked unless she had to, and her soft mechanical whirs and hums quickly became white noise. Wanderer wasn’t sure if P.A.M. could quantify agent fraternization, or how well she could read human social cues, but… better to err on the side of caution. She gave Deacon two hardy pats on the back to give him the hint, and felt a pang of regret as he released her.

He stepped away and regarded her in silence a moment, hands on his hips, elbows bent out in an exaggerated you’re-in-for-an-earful-pal stance.

She said, “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Six hours!” he said, pointing an accusatory finger at her. “Did you know that? Six hours!”

She didn’t reply. She’d made the dead drop six hours before the Railroad’s deadline. Six hours before she’d lost everything. Deacon walked past her, out of the situation room, still scolding her. She trailed behind him through HQ, light-footed and blushing like a girl who’d just been kissed for the first time, warmed to the brim by his brief hug.

Deacon was talking at her over his shoulder. “I know you like to live on the edge, but damn! Were you _trying_ to drive me insane?”

“Hey, I came back, didn’t I? And you should be grateful: I could have made it three.”

Deacon stopped walking and shook his head at her. They were in the HQ bunk hall now, and he flopped backward onto one of the mattresses. She settled on the ground too, taking the bed next to him.

Deacon lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. “God, it’s good to have you back,” he said softly.

Wanderer smiled. “It’s good to be back, partner.”

She waited for him to make another smartass remark, but he just lay there quietly. It was… very unlike him. “Deacon?” She kicked his foot and got no response. He was dead asleep.

“I’m sorry, bud,” she said softly. “I came as soon as I could.”

Getting into the Institute had been almost disconcertingly easy. Getting out had been another matter. Turns out, the Institute actually recruited some of those Wastelanders they kidnapped. Not frequently, but often enough that they had a lengthy onboarding process for specialists new to the Institute. A process they took _very_ seriously.

It had felt almost like a college orientation at first, a few days of tours and getting to know the department heads, a day of debriefings on how she was to interact with Wastelanders from now on. It had taken some convincing to get them to allow her topside again so soon. Luckily, Shaun had made it clear that she was on the fast track.

There was something more to that, she knew. Something it wasn’t safe to ask about yet, but she’d find it out.

Wanderer settled back on the lumpy mattress and sank into the first restful sleep she’d had in days. It was good to be home.


	11. Chapter 11

Wanderer woke to someone jostling her shoulder. She took a deep breath—the familiar scent of musty earth reminding her she was safe—and sat up.

Drummer Boy was kneeling over her. He told her, “Dez said to wake you. You’ve got five hours before you’re deployed again, and you need to type up your full report. P.A.M.’s got a transcript of yesterday if you want to refer to it.”

Wanderer nodded sleepily. She looked over at Deacon where he was still sleeping beside her.

Drummer Boy followed her gaze. “Maybe let him rest,” he said.

“Yeah,” she said softly. She got to her feet, even though she wanted nothing more than to curl up close to Deacon and fall back asleep.

Drummer Boy trotted ahead of her out of the sleeping tunnels and into HQ proper. Christ, where did he get all that energy?

As he reached the main chamber, he called, “Hey, everyone, Wanderer’s back!”

A pleased murmur rippled through HQ as a few agents stopped working to call out a greeting. Tinker Tom practically vaulted over his workbench to get to her. He surprised her by sweeping her up in a strong hug. She didn’t let him go for a long minute. It felt like ages since she’d last seen him.

“Wanderer! Yeah! I _told_ Dez the molecular stabilization held,” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders and holding her at arm’s length, looking her up and down with a satisfied smile. She couldn't help but smile back.

“That’s funny. You didn’t sound certain yesterday,” Drummer Boy said, smirking and raising an eyebrow at Wanderer.

As frustrating as yesterday’s welcome home had been, today was making up for it. The way Drummer and Tom were fussing over her, it felt like she was part of a family. That feeling was filling up some dark, sucking emptiness inside of her that had been there for the past week. Back here, among people who’d missed her and cared about her, she didn’t feel so lost.

She said, “It’s good to see you guys. Where’s Glory?”

“She’s out on a mission for Dayton. I sent a runner there to let her know you’re back,” Drummer Boy said.

“Thanks, Drummer.”

He gave her a crooked smile and tipped his cap. “Just doin’ my job ma’am,” he said. She rolled her eyes at him.

Tom elbowed him in the ribs. “Hey, quiet. Something’s up.” He nodded to where Dez was standing at the cistern in the center of HQ, getting ready to make an announcement.

“We already know what’s up,” Drummer Boy said, covering his ribs with one hand and swatting at Tom with the other. “It’s Wanderer and the—”

“Shhh,” Wanderer and Tom said unison, and Drummer fell into a sullen silence, shaking his head at them in exasperation as the rest of HQ went dead quiet.

Dez addressed the room. “Half of you know already, but… something so big, I can’t ask people to keep it secret any longer. The rumors are true. One of our agents has made it inside the Institute.”

Several agents nearby looked right at Wanderer. There must have been rumors about where she’d been, but, frankly, on paper she wasn’t the wisest choice for the Institute op. Dez wouldn’t have broadcast the fact Wanderer had been assigned to it before she’d returned successful—it wouldn’t have inspired much confidence in the mission.

Some of the agents were watching her with a mix of awe and admiration, but the mood in the air around her had changed. A few standing close by took the smallest step away, like there was something polluted and dangerous about her.

One of the agents asked Dez, still looking warily at Wanderer, “Where is the Institute?”

“We’re not sure, exactly. Best guess is that it’s somewhere under the old CIT. But they’ve been using a teleportation device to get in and out—so it could be anywhere.”

A murmur spread through the room at that revelation. Tom muttered under his breath, “I told them, too, a long time ago. But it was all ‘noooo, it violates the laws of physics.’”

Drummer Boy snorted.

Someone else asked, “What did she find out?”

“I know you all have questions, but I’ve said everything I’m going to. Just know this: the ops you’re planning and running now are the most important of our lives. We have a chance at rescuing more synths than we ever dreamed of. So get it done.”

Dez walked back to the situation room, an excited susurrus starting up in her wake.

“Aw. I missed the big speech.”

Wanderer and Drummer Boy jumped at the sound of Deacon’s voice right behind them.

Drummer Boy said, “You should be resting still.”

“What? And miss all the fun?”

Drummer shot him a look. “You haven’t slept in days.”

Deacon stilled. “How did—have you been having me followed, Drummer?”

“No. But our DC runners who rendezvoused with you the past few days all said...” Drummer Boy shrugged. "I was worried."

Deacon sighed. “Well, you can cut it out—I’m fine. Come on Wanderer; let’s talk,” he said, a frustrated edge in his voice.

Deacon strode away. Wanderer gave Drummer’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “Thanks for watching out for him.”

Drummer rubbed the back of his neck, his face still red from Deacon’s reproach. “Well, I try, anyway.”

Wanderer followed Deacon to where he was perched on a desk next to one of the Railroad terminals. She took a seat in the chair and booted up the computer.

“Mind if I read over your shoulder while you type?” he asked.

“Kinda, yeah,” she said. Deacon grinned. God, she’d missed him.

He pulled out a file from the desk drawer and read while she typed up her account of the last seven days. He’d ask her questions every so often about what she’d seen, helping her fill in details she might have forgotten otherwise, and she gathered it was P.A.M.’s transcript he was reading.

He asked about Shaun a few times, and she didn’t answer him. She dodged a few of his questions about Father, too. He let that slide, for now, but he wouldn’t let her avoid it forever. Probably not even for very long.

In spite of that, she was itching to be alone with him—to be away from the whispers and glances at HQ and fall into the familiar rhythm of being his partner. The longing to be close to him was welling up inside her, so strong her chest ached with it.

When she told him she was done, he jumped of the desk, sliding the file away and locking the drawer.

“Great. Let’s get some fresh air while Dez and P.A.M. look it over. We’ll rendezvous with Guy to pick up your Pip Boy, then go some place nice. Anywhere strike your fancy?”

She grinned. “Yes, actually. But you’re not going like it.”

****

Even after the war, Wanderer had always loved the river promenade. It wasn’t beautiful anymore—not the way it had been—but she still liked to walk the open street near the river when the crush of Boston’s shattered buildings began to feel too claustrophobic.

She knew Deacon hated it here. Any snipers in the buildings nearby could turn the open street into a shooting gallery. But this route had recently been cleared for a package, so they had a little while to talk before they really had to worry about any raiders or troublemakers.

A few of the streetlights still worked along this path, creating stepping-stones of light in the darkness. They'd slept through the daylight hours, and night had fallen again over the city. Wanderer hadn't seen the sun in close to ten days. She and Deacon walked side-by-side down the wide cobbled road. It felt almost like a peaceful nighttime stroll, the kind Wanderer had sometimes taken before the war when she’d been studying law downtown.

But the secret she carried was getting heavier and harder to ignore with each step they took. She knew that was the real reason Deacon had gotten her out here alone—to get her to talk about it. But there was something about saying it out loud to him that would make it real in a way it hadn’t been before. Once Deacon knew—once the Railroad knew—there would be no running from it. It would be the final nail in the coffin of her delusional hope that she’d get her baby back one day.

And she wasn’t ready for that, not just yet.

Deacon said, “It’s good to have you back.”

She smiled. “I think you said that already.”

“Yeah, I… I know.”

There was an uncertain note in his voice that wasn’t like him at all. She stopped walking and turned to face him. Deacon stopped, too. He took her face in his hands abruptly, his fingers sliding gently along her cheeks, like he’d been desperate to touch her—to make sure she was solid and real. His hands were trembling slightly.

“Deacon,” she said, startled. She put her hands over his wrists and squeezed. “What’s wrong?” She searched his face, but it was even more inscrutable than usual, with the light behind him casting shadows over his face, his sunglasses like a mask.

“Ah, nothing,” he said, looking away from her. But he didn’t take his hands away, as if he were trying to convince himself she was really here, and not a mirage about to dissolve the minute he reached out to touch her.

She thought about what Drummer Boy had said, that Deacon hadn’t slept in days. She knew a thing or two about what he must have been feeling this past week—that terrible _not knowing._ It had been hardest to bear those first few weeks—the mile-deep dread and the shred of hope that wore thinner each day, without ever disappearing completely. Fear like that didn’t just evaporate on cue. Even though she’d come back, she knew he felt it still, hanging over his head.

“Kiss me,” she said suddenly, and laughed at the mischievous, surprised smile Deacon gave her.

He drew her to him, his hands steadying. The fierce burst of happiness when their lips met surprised her. She hadn’t realized how heavily the gloom had clung to her since she’d infiltrated the Institute. She circled her arms around Deacon’s back and held him close.

This kiss wasn’t like the ones before. This was soft and slow and lovely—the heady rush of savoring a precious thing that could vanish forever tomorrow. All it would take was one false step, one bad turn, and the Wasteland could snuff it out.

She hadn’t known that love could feel like this—dangerous and hard-edged and wild. None of her pre-war romances had this spike of adrenaline as they kissed, because any unseen danger could be waiting for them in the shadows, or the absolute certainty that she trusted this person with her life, because she’d already put her fate in his hands a hundred times before.

Deacon deepened the kiss, his fingers threading through her hair, cradling her head. She pressed flush against his chest. It felt good, how well the curve of their bodies fit together, the rhythm of his breathing matching hers. She tried to memorize the feel of him, his reassuring warmth and the hungry, enthralling sensation of his kiss. She knew there wouldn’t be many moments like this in the days ahead. There was trouble brewing in the Institute, and in the Railroad—and the two of them were right in the center of it all.

She let out a sigh when they at last pulled apart, and resisted the urge to bury her face in his chest and stay longer in his embrace. She still needed to clear the air—to tell Deacon everything that was going on at the Institute…including Shaun.

“We need to talk,” she told him. He nodded, careful to follow her lead.

She took them to a nearby bench shrouded in shadows and took a seat. Deacon sat next to her, leaning back and sprawling his arms over the back of the bench. Wanderer was leaning forward, elbows resting on her knees, watching the dark waves lap along the sides of the canal.

After a moment, Deacon said, “Alright, I know this isn’t gonna be easy, but you have to talk to me about Shaun. I need to know the situation before I send you back in.”

Wanderer took a long breath and released it slowly. Yeah, this wasn’t going to be easy. Might as well just get it over with.

She said, “Shaun is a sixty year old man, and he’s the leader of the Institute… He’s Father.” It sounded almost silly, it out loud in the brisk night air. It sounded unbelievable. She cast a glance at Deacon.

He was silent—a heavy, stunned silence that stretched on for a too long. She imagined him squinting suspiciously at her from behind his sunglasses.

“Shaun—your kid, Shaun, is… their leader? You’re sure?”

“Pretty fucking sure, yeah,” she said.

“Alright. Is this… Are you trying to get back at me for all that stuff I said when we first teamed up?

“I’m not _lying_ , Deacon,” she snapped. Her tone had more bite than she’d intended, but she badly wanted him to believe her. If she was going back into the Institute, she needed to know that they would figure some way to navigate her new insane reality _together._ She didn’t think she could do it alone.

Deacon must have heard the sincerity in her voice. He said, “Okay. Maybe… he’s lying?”

“Deacon, he looks just like Nate.”

The hurt in her voice stopped him short. He didn’t answer at first, but she still doubted that he was convinced. If she were in his shoes, she’d be thinking, _you were seeing what you wanted to see._

“So… the boy from Diamond City?”

“A synth. And yes, I know for sure. Shaun—Father—used a recall code in him. He was so still he… he didn’t even breathe.”

Deacon made a disgusted sound, his lip curling. “I shouldn’t still be surprised by how fucked up the Institute is. But a _child_ synth? Jesus, they’re experimenting on _kids_ now _?_ I knew they were capable of it, but… shit.”

She didn’t say anything. The less they talked about the kid right now, the better. Deacon sensed something there. She could feel his gaze as he watched her for a long moment, but he decided not to press her on it.

Instead, he said, “They have an answer for everything, huh? And this whole… scenario doesn’t strike you as bizarre?”

She gave a short laugh. Boy, was _that_ an understatement. She rubbed her face, kneading her knuckles into her eyes and then blinking away the spots in her vision. “Of course it does, Deacon. But what’s the alternative? That this is all some elaborate ruse to get me to join the Institute? If… Father has no relationship to me, why would he give a damn?”

Deacon didn’t answer. She told him the whole story then; the one Shaun had told her. About how the Institute had found records of her family frozen in Vault 111, how they'd really developed the Gen 3's, and how Shaun had risen through the ranks. As she talked, she could feel a shift in the air between them—he was starting to believe it.

When she’d finished, they sat in silence for a few minutes. She could sense Deacon mulling everything over, weighing each angle and alternative, trying to sift out the truth. Eventually, he said, “I’m sorry, Wanderer. I really didn’t think… Well. That must have been one mad tea party.”

Wanderer huffed a laugh. “Alice in Wonderland? It felt just like that, yeah. Only thing missing were the teacups and the White Rabbit…” She looked down at her hands. “He could be lying. If there’s one thing we know for sure, it’s that the Institute likes messing with people’s heads.”

“But you believe him.”

“Yeah, I do. And it’s not just me; it’s the whole Institute. Or else every single one of them is just pretending to.” She shrugged.

“So, you’re family to the big man—that’d be enough to get you in the door, a nice tour, and, sure, maybe even an offer to live happily ever after in an underground lair filled with evil scientists. But, everything else… the Courser chip, the red carpet treatment… why is he doing it? We’re, what, chalking all that up to filial devotion?”

It was getting easier to talk about, when Deacon framed it like that—like this was any other job. It reminded her to think like an agent. Infiltrating the Institute wasn't some personal quest for her, not anymore. “No. He needs me. Or he thinks he does, anyway. I don’t know why.”

Deacon nodded. “You need to find out.”

“I’m working on it, boss,” she said flatly.

Deacon chuckled. “Alright, hot stuff. Didn’t mean to ruffle your feathers.”

She sat back and watched the night sky for a while. There weren't many stars out tonight—just a murky grey-blackness, and the dim glow of the moon behind the  nuclear smog. She was glad to get it all out in the open. If she was going to put everything she had left on the line for the Railroad, they needed to know where she stood.

“I… guess you’re going to tell Dez about Shaun?” she said.

“Do you want me to?”

She gave Deacon an exasperated look. He was going to tell Dez, she already knew that. This could have huge ramifications for her mission; it wasn’t something to hide from the Railroad Alpha.

“Not sure I _want_ you to, but… Dez needs to know. Just, no one else, okay?” She was already getting weird looks at HQ. If people found out about Shaun, many of them would never trust her again.

“Hey, I’m the very soul of discretion,” he said,

“Great. Thanks.”

Something in her tone gave him pause. He said, “You know I’m not any good at heart-to-hearts. But I’d give it a shot, if you wanted to talk. About your feelings and stuff.”

She gave a dry laugh. “I don’t want to talk. Not now, anyway. I’m… not really sure how I feel about it yet. All of this is confusing.”

Deacon said, “Tell me about it. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact there’s a grown man out there calling you _mom_.”

“Mother, actually,” she said.

Deacon laughed—a sharp, startled sound. “Oh God, that’s _worse_.”

She flushed. “I told him to call me Helena.”

“Helena. How long has it been since someone called you that?” Deacon asked, his voice suddenly soft.

“A long time,” she sighed.

The sound of her name on his lips had done something strange to her. She hadn’t thought she’d missed being called that. It had been so long since she’d gone by anything other than _Wanderer_ that the first time Shaun had called her Helena, there’d been an awkward beat of hesitation when she’d thought, _is he talking to me?_

But when Deacon said it, it felt like she was _home_. She wanted to ask him to say her name again, but she’d feel foolish doing that. So she just stayed silent for a few minutes, relishing the semblance of peace she felt as she sat close beside him, watching the dark water. It had been a night for long, semi-awkward silences.

She said, “Deacon, I want you to know I think about it a lot, what you said to me about the kind of world they’d build, and how they’re going to pay for it.”

“Hm. I _am_ a very quotable guy. Now, hear me out: I’m thinking about writing all my best sayings in a booklet and distributing it to HQ. I could be like Socrates, but fun.”

“That’s it?”

“What do you mean, _that’s it?_ It would be awesome, and you know it,” Deacon said.

“You’re not going to warn me about their patented form of bullshit and all that?” she teased.

He shrugged. “Don’t really see the point. You’ve already heard my spiel, and I’m not gonna tell you what to think. I know you’ll do right by the Railroad.”

She smiled. Coming from Deacon, that was really touching. “You know what that sounds like, don’t you?” she asked.

“What?” he asked, part curious and part suspicious, like he really had no clue.

She leaned in closer to him, smiling slyly. She said softly into his ear, “It sounds like you’re saying you _trust_ me.”

Deacon waved a hand dismissively. “A true Railroad agent trusts no one, partner. Now give me your Pip Boy; I have to do something suspicious to it.”

Still grinning, she held out her Pip Boy to him. He gently unlatched it, then he drew a small flashlight from his pocket and clicked it on, handing it to her. “Hold that for me.”

She did. He took out a screwdriver next and started tinkering with the Pip Boy. She watched him work without protest, until he popped off the front panel.

“Hey! Go easy, I need that,” she said.

“Relax, I know my way around these things. I’m a vault dweller too, you know. Born and raised.”

“Oh, really?” She raised an eyebrow at him.

“Yeah, of course. That’s where I learned to dance. People there weirdly obsessed with the good ol’ days.” He looked up at her and caught her blushing. She was thinking about the dance they’d shared after the Crowley job. It felt like that had been years ago.

“Hmm. So where’s _your_ Pip Boy, huh?” she asked.

“Kicking around HQ, if Tom hasn’t scrapped it for parts by now. It was way too memorable for me to wear in the field once I started working intel.”

“That’s… plausible.”

Deacon scoffed. “ _Plausible,_ huh? That a snappy new vocab word you picked up at the Institute?" He waggled the screwdriver at her. "I’m not letting you cop out like that. You either call bullshit, or you believe me.”

“Fine. Bullshit.” Deacon wasn’t in the habit of giving away personal information on a whim, but making shit up to set people around him at ease when they got edgy was absolutely his style.

“Nah, I did grow up in a vault, honest. I was a morale officer. How am I doing, boss?”

She snorted. “You’re still bullshitting me.” But the easy, confident timbre of his voice had calmed her, and she let him finish his work on her Pip Boy without further protest. He tossed it back to her when he was done.

“What did you do?” she asked, refastening it to her arm.

“Installed a signal jammer in case you need it. You’re still technically not allowed near HQ without clearance, and it’s best not to take any chances with an active Courser chip, but… I know how things go. If you've got no other choice, switch on the jammer, and it should mask the signal so they can’t track you.”

“ _Should_?”

“Yeah, should. So don’t do it if there’s another option, because there’s a chance you’ll be burning the Church.”

She looked down at the Pip Boy, the hairs rising on the back of her neck. “Does Dez know about this?”

“Come on, you think I’d do this if she didn’t?”

“I absolutely wouldn’t put it past you.”

He just gave her a sly grin and didn’t comment further.

“You don’t have to put yourself in the line of fire alone, you know. You can let me take some of the risk too,” she said. Deacon had a reputation for working his own angle, lying even to the Railroad higher-ups if he needed to. If it somehow came out that he'd given his double agent a Courser signal jammer without clearance, Wanderer would likely be off the hook for it if he said she'd been in the dark, too. But if she _did_ need to use the jammer down the line, she'd rather not go charging into HQ if Dez didn't have the first clue about it.

“What risk? I told you: Dez cleared this,” Deacon said, still playing innocent.

Wanderer knew Deacon well enough to know that even when he was giving you something, he was always keeping something else back—a bit of the truth, or his trust, or his master plan. He never put everything he had in another person’s hands. She wasn’t sure if it was just a deep-rooted habit made him still do that with her, or if there was a part of him that still didn't trust her, even after everything they'd been through together.

She wanted him to trust her with everything. For her own reasons, yeah. Because that's what people were supposed to do, when they loved each other—but also because she knew it was ripping him apart. No one could live like that forever—trying to keep everyone around them at arm's length, trying to take on the world alone—not when they cared as deeply as Deacon did. One day something would snap, and all his finely-wrought schemes would blow up in his face, catching everyone he cared about in the shrapnel.

She said, “Deacon, don’t you ever get tired of—”

“Never.”

She tried out the Dez death stare on him, and it _worked_.

He sighed. “Alright, fine. Tired of _what_?”

She opened her mouth, paused, and shut it. Deacon raised his eyebrows, uncertain if she was being serious with him or not. She blew out a breath and forged ahead. “Of loving your friends, loving your fellow agents like family, and never letting them love you back?”

She watched his throat work as he swallowed hard. For once, Deacon had nothing to say.

“Deacon, before I go back in... I want to tell you—”

A sharp, urgent whistle sounded from the alleyway behind them. Their heads whipped around to zero in on a figure keeping close to the wall, well away from the promenade lights.

Deacon stood up. “That’s Drummer Boy,” he said.

She looked up at Deacon sharply to find him watching her, too, his jaw tense. A chill prickled down her spine. Drummer Boy rarely left the Church. Technically,  heavies were the only HQ personnel who were allowed to leave. Unless something went very wrong.

Deacon stepped up onto the bench seat and hopped over the back in one smooth motion, heading for Drummer Boy. Wanderer followed, her heart rate picking up, her focus sharpening the way it did just before the start of a gunfight.

Seeing Drummer Boy had sent that spark of alarm into the air that every hunted creature knows intimately. She and Deacon were poised for fight or flight as they joined Drummer Boy in the shadows.

“What’s happened?” Deacon asked, his voice low.

Drummer’s eyes darted from her to Deacon. He was breathing hard; he’d probably just run from HQ. And he had that hounded, skittish look runners got when they’d come to tell you a Courser had intercepted your inbound package, or the Institute had just burned the route you were set to take and a Gen 2 hit team was incoming. Runners were made of tough stuff; you didn’t ever want one looking at you the way Drummer was looking at them right now.

He said, “Ticon’s gone dark.”


	12. Chapter 12

Deacon could tell from Drummer’s face that whatever he was going to say was bad—really bad. Of course something would go wrong now, just when the Railroad was winding up for the final blow.

Drummer Boy met his eyes, and said, “Ticon’s gone dark.”

That took the wind out of him. He staggered back a step. They couldn't lose Ticon, not when the Railroad was still reeling from the Switchboard. But if they'd missed their check in hours ago.... then odds were it was already too late. Wanderer reached out to him, gripping his shoulder, but even her steadying touch couldn’t calm the roiling in his stomach.

Drummer Boy said, “They could just be laying low, and missed their check in. There’s been high Institute activity downtown lately.”

It took everything in him not to say, _No. They’re all dead._ The hope on Drummer Boy’s face was more than Deacon could bear right now.

Drummer Boy paused, like he was waiting for him or Wanderer to say _Yeah, of course. They’re just late checking in._ Neither of them said a word.

Deacon could tell their silence was freaking Drummer Boy out, but Drummer didn’t lose his cool easy—no Railroad agent did. His eyes flicked back and forth between them for a moment, but his voice was even and controlled when he said, “We’re evacuating the other safehouses for now, just in case. And Dez is calling in all our HQ assets from the field. You two need to check in with her.”

Wanderer took off her Pip Boy and handed it to Drummer. She looked as wired as Deacon felt—her nostrils flared, her body tense and alert. She didn't fully understand yet the havoc the Institute could wreak when they put their minds to it, but he knew she could still feel the quickening of the hunt in the air—could feel the Institute bearing down on them. Every agent knew what it felt like to have death on their tail.

Drummer took the Pip Boy from her. “I’ll pass this off to one of my runners and meet you back at HQ. Take care, alright? Both of you. A Courser's been spotted in the area.”

Drummer Boy nodded to them, and took off at a light jog down the street. Deacon and Wanderer were silent as they watched him go. A creeping chill worked its way down Deacon's spine. A _Courser_ was in the field. The last little spark of hope he'd had for Ticon flickered out. The Railroad was still short on people, and they had to rotate their combat agents. Ticonderoga didn't have a heavy assigned to them tonight. They were sitting ducks if a Courser had showed up on their doorstep.

When Drummer had turned the corner, Wanderer said, “Shouldn't we go to Ticon? We’re so close. And, if they need our help—”

Deacon was shaking his head. “When the Institute hits us, they hit hard and fast. Whatever’s happened at Ticon is already over.”

“You don’t think there’s a chance, maybe…”

“No. This isn’t my first rodeo, Wanderer. We gotta expect the worst,” he said.

Wanderer nodded solemnly. They turned without another word and started down the road to HQ. Deacon cast a glance over his shoulder, toward Ticonderoga. He could just make out a bit of the skyscraper a couple streets over. He didn’t want to think about what had happened inside.

He knew what Wanderer was feeling—that frantic desire to _do something,_ to pluck your friends from the clutches of death at the last possible moment. It always felt like you could save the day, if you only moved fast enough, or fought hard enough. But it was never true—not when the Institute decided to make a coordinated strike. Railroad protocol for scenarios like this was designed to save as many lives as possible, not go rushing head first into a lost cause.

But it still felt like shit, walking away from Ticon, when all he wanted to do was run right for it, because maybe, _maybe_ , this time would be different. It was a tempting thought, and deadly one. Deacon forced himself to turn away, and focus on the road ahead. Dez would need all the help she could get at HQ. They had to make sure no other safehouses went dark.

He could feel the ground tilting beneath his feet again. Whenever he thought he’d crested that last hill, that the worst was behind them and he had only the downhill trek left ahead, the Institute would turn up and show him that he was never as far ahead as he thought.

They’d let loose their murder machines on his family, because killing was what they did best, and—no matter what shit they said about being “mankind’s best hope for the future”—it would always be what they did best. Because they thought their lives were the only ones that mattered, and that made it real easy for them to rip apart everybody else. One day, he'd make sure they paid for it if he could.

Deacon knew better than most the toll that vengeance could take on a person. When the Railroad finally took the Institute head-on—if they actually won—he didn’t want it to be like... that time before. He didn’t want to lose a piece of himself in the process. But it was only getting harder to calm that roaring fire in his belly—the anger that burned hotter and stronger each time he had to pick up the pieces of another Institute massacre.

He didn’t like to think about it, but he knew there was a dark hunger in him that couldn’t _wait_ for the day he got to rip them apart right back, and put _their_ loved ones in the ground.

And as he walked down the dark alley—shoulder-to-shoulder with Wanderer but feeling miles away—and thought about the slaughter waiting for them at Ticon, that hunger didn’t feel so wrong at all.

Sometimes, on nights like this, it felt like the only thing that kept him going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a head's up that I'll be traveling the next couple weekends, and I'm not sure yet if I'll be able to post early, late, or not at all. So if you don't see anything from me for a little bit, just know that I haven't abandoned you :) I'll do my best not to keep you in suspense for too long!


	13. Chapter 13

A few miles into their run back to HQ, Deacon’s dark mood had all but burned out, leaving nothing but a cold, exhausting dread that dragged at his limbs. Usually, he thrived on the fast-paced wheeling and dealing that was an agent’s daily life—no room for error or second-guessing, just the rush and confidence of a wild gamble. Even on days like this when it felt like everything was going to shit.

Instead, it just felt like too much was happening at once. He was walking on thin ice; he could feel the cracks forming beneath his feet. One wrong step, and all his careful plans would shatter, and he’d plunge into the cold dark waiting to swallow him up.

His feet felt unsure on these roads he'd walked by night a hundred times before. The dark seemed somehow wrong and off-kilter. Deacon ran through his plans in play, trying to clock what was making him feel so off. Ticon had thrown him, but it wasn’t the only reason he felt like he couldn’t find his footing. His mind kept snagging on the jammer.

Yeah, it was a risk giving Wanderer the jammer without HQ’s blessing. If she ever used it, he was going to be in deep, deep shit. But if she ever used it, that would mean that Deacon had been right, and keeping Wanderer at arm’s length had come back to bite them in the ass like he’d _told_ them it would.

Fuck. He needed to tell Wanderer the whole truth about the jammer, immediately. He was an idiot for not doing it when she’d asked. If he left her in the dark and it ended up screwing her over—getting her killed…he didn’t want that on his head. And Wanderer deserved better than a partner who sent her into danger half-blind.

He caught her by the arm, tugging her to a stop. “Hey, listen, before we get to HQ…. Uh, Dez doesn’t know I gave you the jammer.”

She gave him an impatient look. “Yeah, I figured. But maybe lead with that next time? Don’t just hand me a grenade without telling me you’ve already pulled the pin.”

Deacon flushed up to his ears. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

Wanderer was giving him a long, hard look. She said, “We’re partners, Deacon. I hope you know I’ve got your back… and for this to work out, you need to trust me.”

“I _do_ trust you,” he said.

She gave him a double take so perfect Deacon would have laughed if it didn’t make him feel like such an asshole. She hadn’t expected him to say that, not at all.

He hoped saying it out loud, _I trust you_ , would make it feel more true. But there was still a part of him that he couldn’t entirely shake, insisting that the only reason he’d made it this far—the only reason the Railroad had made it this far—was because he didn’t put all his faith in anyone or anything.

But Deacon knew couldn’t take out the Institute alone. He couldn’t even run the infiltration op like one of his regular jobs, where he knew all the angles inside out and pulled all the strings. The Railroad was in way over its head on this one. Wanderer was his only in, his only chance at this turning out right, and he really, really wanted to believe she’d succeed. So he needed to give her as much trust as he could muster.

“You’re in the know from now on. It won’t happen again,” he said.

They were walking at a brisk pace now, the alarm bells still ringing in the back of their minds, pulling them toward HQ.

Wanderer said, “So why are we doing this on the down low anyway?”

“Uh. Well, it’s a funny story. It’s not _directly_ disobeying orders, but…. It toes the line.”

“Jesus Christ, Deacon,” she hissed.

“Yeah, I know. But unless disaster strikes, we won’t ever use it. And, I’ll be honest: flirting with insubordination is kinda how I live my life.”

She raised an eyebrow at him.

Deacon shrugged. “We’re already taking the risk, putting an agent in the Institute. Flying that close to the sun, we need a failsafe next time you go under.”

Technically, Dez had already approved Deacon’s idea, but she was dragging her feet giving him the green light. The infiltration op was only a week in, and they barely had the lay of the land. High-risk ops like this, protocol was not to invest too deeply at first, to let the agent sink or swim on their own, until the higher-ups gave their approval on more extreme measures. They’d already anted up more than was safe.

It was early to put a make-or-break call entirely in Wanderer’s hands, but Dez wanted to use this op to get the synths out of the Institute if it was the last thing the Railroad did. Carrington? Not a chance. He still didn’t want to gamble on this op; he thought the Railroad had a chance at winning the long game. And he was doing everything in his power to block Deacon’s plan.

But there was no telling how much time Wanderer would have in the Institute before the shit hit the fan. They needed to prepare now. The next time the Institute got a bead on the Railroad’s HQ, Wanderer might be the only thing between them and another Switchboard.

Wanderer rubbed her hands over her face. “We’re playing with fire, here.”

“What if something happens, and it’s all our lives on the line, and you can’t wait for clearance?” he said.

“What if I come charging into HQ with my Pip Boy, and get shot in the face for it?”

“I’m _not_ gonna let that happen,” he said firmly. 

“What if I burn the Church on accident?”

“Tom’s tech hasn’t failed us so far. And you’d only take the chance if we’re already burned.”

Wanderer closed her eyes and sighed. “I really hope I never have to use it.”

“Yeah, me too,” Deacon said. They fell into an uneasy silence and resumed their brisk jog, as quickly as they dared over the dark and uneven terrain.

By now, the two of them were experts at traversing downtown Boston by night. They made it to the Church without engaging anyone on the roads. Not many agents could have pulled that off.

They wound their way through the tunnels beneath the Church, steering clear of the ghouls wandering the corridors. But before they reached HQ, Deacon called a halt.

“What’s the hold up? We need to get in there,” Wanderer said.

Deacon slumped against the corridor wall. The run to HQ had winded him more than it should have, and he needed a minute before stepping into whatever mess was waiting for them inside.

He knew what came next. The clean up and the damage control after the carnage, the frantic scramble to make sure the other safehouses didn’t go down like dominoes. Just thinking about it made him feel really, really tired.

Wanderer snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Deacon?”

“ _What_?” he said sharply.

“Looked like you were spacing out there. Are you with me?”

“Yeah, I’m with you. I’m just freaking out here, that’s all.”

She gave him a hesitant grin, unsure whether he was kidding, or really was losing it. He didn’t know why he couldn’t get a grip tonight—couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe this was it, the Railroad’s point of no return. Soon, no wiles or cleverness or crazy-ass schemes would pull them back from the brink. He had this bad feeling in the pit of his stomach that every choice he made tonight would turn out to be the wrong one.

Wanderer gave him a hearty pat on the cheek that actually did help him focus a little. She cupped his face in her palm and made him look at her.

“We’ve got this, pal. You and me,” she said. But she sounded a little freaked, too.

Deacon was usually the one with the pep talk, who never missed a beat on missions. He wasn't used to having someone to shore him up when he faltered. He hadn't thought he'd needed it. But he had this strange urge to tell her just how tired he was, how it felt like the road kept getting longer the farther he traveled—how it felt like they'd never reach the end.

But this wasn't the time to stop and make time for doubts. They needed push ahead. Nights like this, it was dangerous to let yourself stop for too long.

“Right. Let’s go,” he said. She nodded and dropped her hand. Deacon felt a little steadier as they left the tunnels and headed into HQ proper. 

HQ command was abuzz when they entered. Deacon and Wanderer wove in between the bustling agents. An agent with an armful of papers clipped Deacon’s shoulder as he moved past without even seeming to notice. They were piling all the paper files together in a corner of the catacombs. Deacon felt that cold, prickling fear again at his fingertips and down his spine. They were getting ready to burn the place and run, if they needed to.

Dez was giving directions from her usual post by the cistern. Relief flashed across her face as she caught sight of them.

“Good, you’re here,” she said as they approached. “Ticonderoga has gone dark, and I need you to check it out. If you find a Courser there, kill it.”

That stopped both of them short. Deacon hadn’t expected that. In a few hours, Wanderer would be heading back into the Institute. Unless there wasn’t another option, she needed to be far away from a Railroad outpost humming with Institute activity. He’d figured they’d cover a safehouse until Drummer gave the all-clear. Then she’d go back under, and he’d be running damage control for a few days.

Wanderer cast a quick look at Deacon, apparently thinking along similar lines. “That could blow my cover, Dez,” she said.

“If there’s no survivors, then your cover remains in tact,” Dez said levelly.

Either Dez wasn’t expecting high activity at Ticon, or she’d run out of options. Dez wouldn’t risk Wanderer’s cover lightly. Something had their other heavies tied up.

“Dez… why us?” Deacon asked.

Dez closed her eyes for a brief moment, collecting herself before she answered him. “I don’t have anyone else. Glory’s evacuating Dayton, and I already sent a team to check it out, as soon as Drummer got the news. They went dark, too.”

Deacon and Wanderer fell silent. They exchanged a look. The fear and weariness had left Wanderer`s face, replaced by determination, flinty and unyielding. If there was a chance they could still help their friends, they would take it.

“I need to know what’s happening over there. As soon as possible,” Dez said.

“We’re on it, boss,” he said.

Dez gave them an absentminded nod before she turned away and announced to the room, “Everyone, we may have to evac on a moment’s notice. Stay alert.”

“Well. We’re getting our exercise today,” Wanderer said wryly as they headed out the way they came in.

“Hey, we’re all about cardio here,” Deacon said half-heartedly. That heavy weariness was tugging at him again. They had a long, long night ahead of them. He hoped they both lived to see the end of it.


	14. Chapter 14

Nothing moved outside Ticon. Wanderer drew Deliverer from its holster. It might look quiet, but she knew there was trouble waiting for them inside.

“I don’t like the look of this,” she told Deacon.

“That makes two of us. But whatever the situation is in there, waiting’s not gonna make it any better,” he said.

Wanderer pulled back into the alleyway where they had taken shelter to scope out Ticon. Deacon knelt down and checked his ammo, inspecting the sights of his rifle. She felt a sudden flutter of nervousness for him, heading into a close-quarters fight with long-range weapon. He had a pistol he used when he was in a tight spot, but he wasn’t a great shot with it, and it’d do little good against a Courser, anyway.

Deacon readied his gear and stood up. “Time to earn our pay checks,” he said. He looked over at her. “You think we’re getting paid for this, right?”

Wanderer didn’t reply. She felt deeply uneasy about this fight. As far as the Railroad knew, she had already fought a Courser and won—but that wasn’t the whole truth. This time, she didn’t have the upper hand, and she wasn’t sure they would win. She’d seen how Coursers fought— their cold, confident efficiency and the staggering number of bodies they left in their wake.

“Hey. You okay?” Deacon asked. She just peered back around the corner, trying to make out any movement on Ticon’s ground floor.

“It’s a bad night to be off your game, Wanderer,” Deacon said.

She huffed a dry laugh. “Every night is.”

Deacon cocked his head at her. She could feel his sidelong gaze sizing her up. She didn’t look at him. He’d seemed ratted back at HQ, but once they’d emerged into the cold night, he’d steadied, and now she was the one with frayed nerves.

This wasn’t how agents were supposed to act under pressure, seesawing between resolve and terror. But both she and Deacon had been pushing themselves hard this past week—too hard—and one day of rest hadn’t been enough to recover. Fatigue had gotten plenty of agents killed in this line of work, but right now they didn’t have another option.

She said, “I don’t see anything moving out there. You still wanna go in stealthed?”

“I always do,” he replied. Wanderer heard the _pop_ of stealth boy being activated, and Deacon blinked out of sight.

She switched on her own stealth boy, the field humming softly as it activated, her body disappearing except for the slight shimmer of movement. It took a lot of getting used to, moving quickly and quietly over rough ground without being able to see your own feet. But her first few weeks as Deacon’s partner had been a crash course in stealth boy use. Now she was nearly as proficient as he was.

She made her way carefully toward Ticon, not bothering to try to track the faint glimmer of Deacon’s outline. She had to strain her eyes just to keep her steps quiet and steady, and look out for threats.

She held Deliverer poised to fire, but there was no sign of hostiles as they approached the shattered double doors of the complex. She’d lived in ruins so long, most days it was difficult to imagine what this place had looked like before the world ended. But suddenly she was remembering walking into a hotel lobby like this one a lifetime ago, its floors polished to shining. She was wearing a summer dress, and the young desk clerk was smiling, saying _good evening, welcome, we hope you enjoy your stay_.

It was a silly thing to feel homesick for. Right now, all she really wanted was to know her friends were alive. She raised her weapon and forced her head back into the present.

It was the smell that first tipped her off that something was deeply wrong. As she drew closer, she realized that the long dark streaks on the ground weren’t shadows—they were scorch marks… and blood. And the large forms on the ground—which she’d thought were piles of debris—were bodies… bodies wearing Railroad heavy armor.

She hurried to one of the still forms and checked for a pulse, already knowing what she’d find. She checked them one by one; they were all going cold.

Deacon called from behind her, “Over here! It’s Guy!”

Wanderer whipped around. She strode quickly toward Deacon as her stealth field burned out, her breath catching. “Is he…?”

“He’s alive,” Deacon said, kneeling down next to him.

Wanderer knelt, too, already reaching for her med supplies. But Guy was in bad shape—really bad. He’d taken at least two rounds to the chest, and those burns went _deep._ Coursers didn’t carry your typical Gen 2 rifles. She looked up at Deacon, and the slight half shake of his head sent her stomach plummeting.  

Guy’s eyes fluttered open, and his chest started rising and falling quickly as he focused on their faces. “Courser,” he murmured urgently.

Deacon put a hand on Guy’s shoulder. “We know. Don’t worry, pal, we’ll take it from here. Wanderer eats Coursers for breakfast.”

Guy drew in a sharp breath, clutching at Deacon’s arm “…don’t…don’t…” He trailed off. Then his hand fell, and he went still.

Wanderer sat back on her heels, her eyes burning and a cold, numbing sensation working its way through her limbs, burying itself deep in her gut. Deacon let go of Guy’s shoulder and gave a hoarse, pained sound. It shouldn't have happened like this. Guy had risked his life to save them, not long ago. They should have been here.

She said, “If we’d come sooner, as soon as we heard, maybe…” It felt like they’d been _so close_ to stopping this—if they’d just made one call differently, somewhere along the way.

“This wasn’t our fault, Wanderer,” Deacon said firmly, but we wouldn’t meet her gaze. He slid his fingers under his shades to rub his eyes hard. “ _Shit._ ” He looked absently around the lobby. “He should’ve just run. They should've... Everyone knows what happens when a Courser shows up at a safehouse.”

_Just run_ was every agent’s instinct when a Courser was on the field, except maybe for Glory. But there was something wrong about how the bodies were clustered, how all of the energy weapon blasts were near the elevator, like the agents had been fighting to get out, not in.

“They were ambushed here,” she said. “It was a trap.”

Deacon shook his head and stood abruptly. "Here’s hoping there’s not another waiting for us at the top. What do you think; stairs or elevator?”

Wanderer stayed on her knees. She knew they needed to press on, but she didn’t feel ready to face whatever was waiting upstairs.

Deacon took her arm and hauled her to her feet. He said, “The trick to this is, keep moving until you can afford to stop. So; stairs or elevator?”

Wanderer shook herself, tried to get her head back on the mission. They weren’t even halfway through it yet. She said, “Are we using my cover to ambush them?”

“I don’t want to die, so… yeah.”

“Then the elevator, like we’re supposed to be there.”

Deacon nodded and headed toward it. Before they the reached the elevator, she grabbed his arm to stop him. “Deacon—wait. Before we go up there, there’s something you need to know.”

He raised his eyebrows at her. “That doesn’t sound good.”

When she’d first found the Railroad, she’d been desperate to learn whatever they could tell her about the Institute. She’d needed their trust. And, since they’d mostly just been interested in the Courser chip, it hadn’t felt like a lie when Deacon had strode onto the scene calling her Courser killer, and she hadn’t corrected him.

But now, standing at the foot of Ticon with a possible Courser fight looming over them, it felt like a big lie.

“I, um… I didn’t actually kill that Courser at Greenetech Genetics.”

One side of his mouth kicked up in wry amusement. “You choose now to tell me this? You did kill it,” he said, and held up a hand when she opened her mouth to protest, “you just used its recall code on it first. I don’t suppose you know how to recall this one?”

Wanderer stilled, letting go of his arm. “No, I don’t. You… knew about that?”

“Yeah. Not sure if you knew this about me, but my job around here’s intel. I’m kinda good at it. I’d have asked you _how_ you knew the code, but I already checked out that lead, and I’m willing to bet you’re as stumped as I am.”

She wasn’t stumped; she knew what had happened. Once she and Preston had finally gotten Mama Murphy to stop using, her leads on Shaun had stopped coming, just like she’d said they would. Wanderer knew that didn’t make any sense, that drugs didn’t _actually_ give people mystical powers. But still. It was the truth.

She said, “But you told Dez… that was the reason you recruited me for the Railroad.”

He smiled slyly at her then, looking more like his old self than he had since they’d heard about Ticon. “That’s not why I recruited you, Wanderer.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’d been keeping tabs on me long before Greenetech Genetics, hadn’t you?”

“Now, that’s a crazy story. I’ll tell you all about it sometime, but right now we gotta go kick the Institute’s ass,” he said, and hit the call button. They stood awkwardly in the silent lobby, listening to the turning gears in the shaft as the elevator descended.

Deacon shook his head. “You know, this whole time, I thought you knew I knew. About the Courser.”

“Well, I didn’t. I can’t tell with you sometimes, even now.”

“Really? That’s a relief. I thought you had my number for sure.” His tone was turning light again, his usual, easy cadence that sounded like he was winding up for a punch line. It felt forced. Neither of them wanted to be here, waiting in the lobby among the dead. The elevator settled onto the ground floor and let out a muted _ding_.

She and Deacon didn’t speak as they rode the elevator up. She wondered what he was thinking about—if his head, like hers, was full of whatever terrible unknown was waiting for them at the top. It seemed like no time at all had passed when the elevator stopped. The doors slid noisily open.

The air was thick with the scent of ozone and melted plastic, and with the stench of charred meat that made her stomach roil. It was almost pitch dark. The synths must have cut the power before launching their attack—they hadn’t needed light to do their deadly work.

The Railroad agents hadn’t stood a chance.

She could see the glowing yellow eyes of Gen 1 and Gen 2 synths as they swept the place. The radio was still playing softly in the background, the refrain of _Easy Living_ echoing through the room.

Near them, two tiny points of light shone in the dark. Wanderer jumped as she realized it was the Courser, clothed in black, his eyes reflective as cat’s.

“Intruder identified. Helena Marlowe, this is a restricted area. Your arrival wasn’t in the mission briefing. This irregularity will be reported to Justin Ayo.”

Wanderer said, without missing a beat, “X9-27. The SRB sent me to check on you. See if you need help.”

It wasn’t the most convincing lie, but using his designation would help sell it. She’d made it a priority to memorize all the Courser’s designations, made sure she could identify them on sight.

“Who is the other? I have no record of this person,” the Courser said.

“Who, me? I’m nobody interesting,” Deacon said.

Wanderer said, “He’s a merc I hired—”

“He should not be here. I will need to report his involvement to Justin Ayo.”

“That’s fine,” she said impatiently. “Tell Ayo whatever you want, I’ve already cleared this with the SRB. What’s the situation here?”

She couldn’t see the Courser’s face clearly, but he seemed to accept her and Deacon’s presence. He said, “Mission proceeding according to plan. Ambush set for Railroad targets. The second unit has relayed back to the Institute with the reclaimed synths.”

Her heart sank. It was already over. Ponyboy, and all the runaways Ticon had been sheltering—all of them were gone.

“Well done,” she said, feeling sick.

The Courser didn’t respond to her praise. He turned and strode deeper into the safehouse. “Orders are to sweep the premises for additional intel on Railroad assets and activity,” he said. “Reconnaissance still in progress.”

She followed as he moved toward the stairs, keeping her eyes fixed on him as she tried to work up the nerve to shoot him the head.

She resisted the urge to grit her teeth, or clench her hands. She kept her breathing steady. It had to be decisive and quick, one shot at close range to where the skull was softest, or he would sense her increased her heart rate, or a premature flinch to her weapon, and it would be over for her.

Behind her, she heard Deacon take a step to follow them, and the whir of metallic joints, the slight tap of metal on tile as a Gen 2 moved to block his path.

Turning round to face them, the Courser said, “The merc doesn’t leave this building—”

Before he’d finished his sentence, Wanderer had aimed Deliverer and fired.

He didn’t make a move to resist it. He slumped to the floor, knees buckling under him, and lay there, dark blood pooling on the ground. She blinked at the body. She lowered her gun, stomach twisting. She hadn’t expected it to feel like a murder.

Then Deacon side-tackled her, forcing her behind cover as the synths opened fire. He shouted, “Keep your head in the game, Jesus _Christ!”_ and bolted to find his own cover.

Wanderer drew a deep breath to clear her mind, in and out. Then she took a small flashlight from her belt, clicked it on, and used it to light Deliverer’s line of sight. She took out two Gen 1’s quickly, but the Gen 2’s were smarter, and kept moving. It was hard to keep a bead on them in the dark. She ducked down as they started firing back.

“I need more light!” she shouted, taking shelter behind the counter to reload. Shards of wood and plastic showered her.

Deacon lit a flare and tossed it to where the fire was thickest, lighting up their targets. The sharp rapport of his rifle in the crowded room made her flinch. It sounded like cannon fire compared Deliverer’s silenced rounds.

He tossed another flare into the fray, and Wanderer fell into the urgent, focused rhythm of battle. Pounding heart, hands moving almost of their own accord—two more synths down, and she’d barely registered making the shots before she started lining up her sights again. She and Deacon made short work of the remaining Gen 2’s.

Quiet fell over the room, smoking rising from the remains of the synths. She tried to listen for Deacon, but couldn’t hear anything but her own heavy breaths.

“Sound off!” she called.

“I’m in one piece!” Deacon said. “You?”

“All good.” She turned off her flashlight and let her eyes adjust to the dark.

She heard the clatter of debris as Deacon got to his feet. She could just make out his white shirt in the fading light of the flare. She got up too and walked toward him, tripping over a body on the way, something soft—the Courser, or one of their people?

Deacon caught her by the arm and pulled her upright. Then he took the flashlight from her, clicked it on again, and walked over to one of the windows. He pulled aside the heavy curtain to let moonlight into the room.

Wanderer gave a strangled, involuntary cry. Bodies littered the safehouse floor. Ticon had twelve agents assigned to it—she counted seven on this floor alone.

Deacon said, “All of this, and it was so goddamned easy to clear this place. Doesn’t seem right.”

Wanderer didn’t answer. She was thinking about the way the Courser had crumpled unresisting to the ground. He hadn’t fought back; he hadn’t even tried. She was a quick draw—but quicker than a Courser? It was almost like he _couldn’t_ fight back _._

Deacon had started going room to room, and then he trotted up the stairs to check the second floor. She couldn’t make her legs work to follow him.

When she’d first joined the Railroad, every mission had ended like this. She’d infiltrate a raider nest just to find that they’d killed the agent she was sent to rescue, that he’d been dead for days. Or she’d be sent to investigate the remains of a settlement the Institute had wiped out. She didn’t have to talk to P.A.M. to know that the Railroad was losing more ground than they were gaining.

Deacon reappeared, jogging back down the stairs to join her.

“No survivors,” he told her. He looked lost for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck absentmindedly. “Well, I had to check, didn’t I?” he said defensively, even though she hadn’t said anything. He looked over at her curiously, like he’d only just noticed she hadn’t moved for the past ten minutes.

“Um…Wanderer?”

She said, “I’m okay. I’m just…” She wasn’t sure how to describe what she was feeling, so she let her words trail off.

Deacon came over and lifted her chin gently so he could study her face. She couldn’t see his eyes, but she could feel the concern in his gaze. “The first time is really rough,” he said.

She choked out a harsh laugh that nearly broke and tried not to think about an attack like this happening _more than once._

Deacon was watching her closely. He said, “You should report back to HQ. I have to confirm the dead and destroy any evidence left here. And cover up our little skirmish.”

Wanderer thought about Deacon picking through the wreckage for the corpses of his fellow agents. “Deacon, you don’t have to do that alone,” she said.

“Yeah, I do. Dez needs to know what went down here.”

“If the Institute comes back, and I’m not here—”

“Then I’m pretty good at not being seen when I don’t want to be.”

“Deacon—”

“Look, when a safehouse goes dark, we pull synths out of all the others just in case. But Dez won’t have had time to secure all the routes. The longer she waits to give the all clear, the longer they’ll be in danger. And, since I’m trying to get better at the whole ‘full disclosure’ thing… You’re not looking too good, Wanderer. You should get out of the field.”

“I don’t think we should split up right now.”

Deacon was already shaking his head. “Hell of a time to doubt my instincts, partner.” He took her shoulders in his hands and shook her gently. There was a helplessness in the gesture that twisted her insides.

She didn’t doubt his judgment; she was _worried_ about him. But the Railroad—and Deacon—needed her to do her job right now, more than they needed anything else.

“If you’re not thirty minutes behind me to HQ, I’m coming back after you,” she said.

“I’ll make it in twenty.”

She sighed. “Fine. I’ll take the stairs and make sure your exit is clear.”

Deacon nodded. She forced herself to leave him and start down the stairs. It was then she remembered she was expected back at the Institute in a matter of hours, and she had to show up looking put together and confident, and like she had definitely _not_ just been in a firefight with Institute forces.

_Don’t stop, until you know you can afford to,_ she told herself, echoing Deacon’s words from earlier. It helped, a little. It made her think about everyone that was still depending on her. She had a feeling that, from here on out, every day would be a struggle to stay a half step ahead of the enemy. That there wouldn’t be any rest until one of them—the Railroad or the Institute—was gone for good.

Whether the Railroad was ready or not, their endgame had begun.


	15. Chapter 15

Wanderer barely registered the trek back to HQ. Her head was full of everything the Railroad had lost in the span of a few hours, and how the night was still far from over. Walking along the riverfront earlier that evening with Deacon felt like a long time ago—back when she’d begun to feel like maybe everything would work out. The end had felt so _close._ But now, it felt like they had a long, long uphill battle ahead of them.

Dez and Drummer Boy were waiting for her at HQ, Drummer pacing back and forth. He stopped dead when he saw her. Relief flooded his face, but there was a heavy fear there, too.

Dez stood up straighter as Wanderer approached. “Report?” she said.

Wanderer swallowed hard. “Ticonderoga was wiped out by Coursers. Everyone… everyone’s dead.”

“And the team I sent? Guy and the others?” Dez asked, searching her face.

Wanderer glanced away. “They’re dead, too,” she said around the sudden tightness in her throat.

Desdemona’s shoulders sank. “All hands lost? That is _not_ what I wanted to hear.” She paused, glancing around. “Deacon, is he…?”

Shit, she really wasn’t thinking straight. She was leaving out important details. 

“Deacon’s fine,” Wanderer said quickly. It wasn’t true; neither of them were fine. “He’s running damage control at Ticon. He’ll be here in twenty.”

Dez nodded. Drummer Boy was giving her a tense, hopeful look. He asked, “My runner…?”

He meant Ponyboy _._ Wanderer shook her head. “Back in the Institute. I’m sorry, Drummer.”

Drummer breathed out a soft, broken, _No_ that made her flinch.

Carrington pushed his way past Dez and Drummer Boy. “Once you’re done talking at her, I’ll get to work. If you don’t mind.”

“I’m not hurt, Doc,” Wanderer said. Carrington stared at her. Dez and Drummer Boy exchanged a look.

“We’ll leave you to it,” Dez said. She put a hand on Drummer’s shoulder, and they both left.

Wanderer looked herself over, assessing the damage from the firefight for the first time. Adrenaline was strong stuff; she and Deacon usually did a check after each fight to make sure they didn’t accidentally ignore injuries that needed attention—but it had been dark in Ticon, and they’d both been too shaken. She felt a renewed pang of worry for Deacon. Had he been more hurt than she’d realized?

Carrington was helping her out of her heavy jacket. It was streaked with dark scorch marks. She’d taken a plasma round in the shoulder that had burned through the armor and was starting to hurt like hell. Wanderer hissed as Carrington gingerly pulled the melted fabric of her shirt from the wound. He gave her an impatient glance, but didn’t gripe like he usually would about her not taking care, or how she and the others seemed determined to undo all his hard work.

When he’d finished tending her wounds, he handed her a container of salve. “Put this on the less sever burns for a few days as it heals. And change the bandages on your shoulder frequently or you’ll get an infection.”

“Thanks, Doc. But I was just planning to stick myself with a few stims until I’m patched up.”

Carrington wrinkled his nose disapprovingly. “Try not to use stimpacks to solve _all_ your problems, hm? There’s such thing as taking too many, and our supplies aren’t endless. Besides, you survived your last encounter with… surprisingly minimal damage. All things considered.”

“Well. I _am_ good at my job,” she said. Carrington rolled his eyes. She said firmly, “I can’t be nursing a plasma wound when I’m back in the Institute.”

Carrington froze in the middle of packing up his medical bag. “You can’t be serious. Surely you’re not considering going back, after everything that’s just happened?”

She gave him a long stare in response. He was crazy if he thought she and Deacon were going to throw in the towel after they’d come so far.

Carrington read it on her face. “That is… extremely foolhardy.”

“Good thing it’s not your call to make,” she said.

He gave a clipped, disapproving _hm_. “As you say,” he said stiffly. Then he turned and walked away without looking back.

There’d been a defiant spark in his eye that told her he didn’t intend to let her have the last word about this. She’d worry about that later. Right now, all she had energy for was relishing how good it felt to be sitting down. She focused on the heaviness in her arms and legs, letting her muscles slowly relax, and tried to sink into the fatigue that was causing her head to bob sleepily. She tried to shut out the roiling tide of her thoughts and rest for a few minutes.

It didn’t work for long. She was remembering sitting on the ground in med bay with Guy two weeks ago, and how he’d never see the Institute fall. And she was thinking of High Rise welcoming Ponyboy to Ticon, saying _I hope she’ll be a good home to you._ Wanderer shut her eyes tightly and bit down on her lip _hard_.

She started counting down the minutes in her head as she waited for Deacon, giving it her full focus, letting the mantra drown out everything else. But her heart was pounding now. The pleasant weariness was gone, and twenty minutes felt like an eternity.

Dez must have set Drummer Boy as watchdog. As soon as Deacon set foot in HQ, he was calling, “Deacon’s back!”

Wanderer jumped to her feet. Drummer Boy shot her a concerned glance as he walked past, and she realized her cheeks and neck were wet with tears. She hadn’t realized she’d been crying.

Deacon was already walking toward them, his shoulders slumped, looking more tired than she’d ever seen him. He didn’t say anything, and the three of them just stood there uncomfortably in the grim silence until Dez strode over to them.

“Deacon. I was starting to worry.”

“They got High Rise, Dez,” Deacon said softly.

“I know. I need you in the situation room with P.A.M., now.”

Deacon nodded slowly. He glanced around the room, stopping when his eyes met Wanderer’s. “Wanderer should be there,” he said.

Dez gave her a long look. Then said, “Okay. Let’s go.” She headed to the back room, Deacon trailing behind.

Wanderer didn’t follow right away. She felt burned-out and weary. She wouldn’t have minded if they'd just left her alone until she was too tired to stay awake. But she couldn’t turn down an offer like that from Dez. And after the hell they’d just walked through, no way was she letting Deacon go in there alone.

She joined them in the situation room, shutting the door behind her.

Dez was saying, “That’s 70% of our HQ combat agents wiped out. For the second time in less than a year. It’ll take months to recover numbers, even longer for morale. And Glory will be the only heavy free to run missions for our safehouses.”

Dez pulled out a cigarette. She flicked her lighter, muttering under her breath as it sparked several times but didn’t light.

Carrington said, “We need to go to ground. Immediately.”

“We _can’t_ go to ground,” Wanderer said. All three of them turned to her.

“Why?” Carrington said, “Because of your Institute job? That operation is putting us all in jeopardy, and what do we have to show for it? A compromised safehouse and a dozen dead agents. Four synths recaptured.”

“My op didn’t burn Ticon,” Wanderer said hotly.

Carrington raised his eyebrows. “No? You have to admit, the timing is curious.”

Wanderer tried not to rise to the bait. She said, “We’ve been running this op for a week, and we’ve already collected more intel on the Institute than we have in the past _two decades_.”

Carrington scoffed. “That is little consolation if it ends up killing us. Do you have _any_ idea how we’re supposed to take them down? Any fatal flaws you’ve failed to share with us thus far?”

She’d been undercover less than a month, and he knew it. But that’s likely the excuse he wanted her to use. She said, “Their leadership is extremely fractured. If not for … Father, they’d be in serious danger of collapsing into factions—”

“Not exactly a plan the inspires confidence, is it? Hoping they devolve into civil war after they’ve been strong for hundreds of years.” Carrington crossed his arms.

She glared at him. She knew he was just trying to derail her argument. The Institute job _was_ extremely risky, but they’d all known that going in. “I—”

“We need to go to ground. It’s the way we’ve survived in the past,” Carrington said, interrupting her.

“Because that worked so well last time?” she said. Real anger flashed over Carrington’s face. Sensing she'd crossed a line, she glanced quickly at Desdemona and caught her warning look.

“Our decisions after the Switchboard aren’t at issue right now,” Dez said firmly, with a loud-and-clear reproach of _you weren’t there_ beneath her words. “And hiding long and hard _was_ the only reason any of survived after that raid.”

“Right. I was out of line,” Wanderer said, unable to meet Carrington’s glare.

Carrington said, “Almost every safehouse in the network went down with the Switchboard. Ticonderoga is too close to headquarters for us to risk that happening again. I don’t understand why we’re still arguing about this.”

Dez said, “Deacon, you’ve been quiet. What do you think?”

Deacon was leaning against the back wall, his posture relaxed and his arms crossed. “I think this is our one shot at infiltrating the Institute. If we give it up now, we’re idiots who deserve what we’re gonna get.”

Carrington bristled at that. Leave it to Deacon to go straight for the throat; Carrington didn’t take kindly to being called an idiot, even in the hypothetical. He growled, “This is about _survival._ We’re in no position to take out the Institute right now. In the past when a safehouse was comprised, HQ was _always_ close behind, unless we went to ground _._ ” He turned to P.A.M. “What is the probability we destroy the Institute without killing ourselves in the process?”

P.A.M. cocked her head, her processors whirring for a few moments.

“There is a 10% probability of successful Institute annihilation. Be aware: this calculation has a high degree of uncertainty, due to the presence of—”

Deacon was talking over P.A.M. before she’d finished her analysis, “And what’s the probability the Railroad lasts another ten years at the rate we’re going?”

P.A.M. paused. “Following current models for Railroad recruitment and loss, probability of lasting ten years without a critical failure is 0.8%.”

The room went dead silent at that. P.A.M. had a reputation for delivering bleak predictions for the Railroad, but… less than one percent. They had virtually _no chance_ at long-term survival. Wanderer glanced at Deacon. This was an Ace he had been carrying up his sleeve for a while. Clearly, it was a question no one in the room but him had asked her before.

Into the chilled silence, Deacon said, “There’s no surviving the Institute. If we don’t end them while we have the chance, this keeps happening until we’re all dead.”

Dez said, “Then it’s a race to free the synths before the Institute wipes us out.”

Carrington turned to her, aghast. “You’re not serious?”

“I know the cost might be great, but this is the closest we’ve ever been to freeing the synths from the Institute for good. Deacon’s right; it’s now or never.”

Carrington glared at Deacon. “If this gets us all killed, it’s on your head.”

Deacon just stared levelly back at him.

Dez turned to Wanderer. “We’ll run damage control from here for as long as we can. The rest is up to you and Deacon.”

Wanderer nodded. She looked to Deacon, expecting him to meet her gaze, waiting for that spark of solidarity between them—that silent, confident _we’ve got this._ But he wasn’t even looking at her. He was staring straight ahead, his jaw set, his face tense. Wanderer felt a stirring of unease in her stomach. Tonight had hit him hard.

Dez said, “Carrington, Deacon, you’re dismissed. Wanderer, I need to talk to you.”

Deacon still didn’t meet her eyes as he left. Wanderer watched him with concern until he shut the door after him.

“How soon can Z1 be ready to move?” Dez said the moment they were alone.

Wanderer’s first order of business once she went back undercover would be to tell Z1 that the Railroad was prepared to help him launch a full-scale rebellion. Assuming he went for the idea, he’d have to build his forces essentially from scratch. “He’ll need as much time as we can give him. Maybe a month, at least. They  need to make weapons and recruit synths. But they’ll have to be slow, and careful. The Institute doesn’t put a lot of resources into internal security, but they watch the synths closely.”

Dez sighed. “We can’t hold out for long, especially if the Institute decides to hit us again. But we have to be sure the synths can make it out before we make our move.”

“Dez… can you give me the details on the Institute assault?”

Dez glanced up at her sharply. She hadn’t expected that question, but Wanderer knew she and P.A.M. must have been making plans to take down the Institute from the moment she’d adopted Wanderer’s plan to use the Relay to get inside.

Dez said carefully, “Details are still being ironed out. The biggest question is what to do to the Institute itself. P.A.M. believes their destruction is absolutely necessary. I’d hoped…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “But after tonight, it’s clear we can’t afford any hand wringing. We only have one option left to us.”

The image of the synth kid came to Wanderer’s mind, and the deep, painful joy in her chest when she’d thought he was her son. “Families live there, Dez. Kids,” she said.

“Yes,” Dez said softly. “We’re going to evacuate more than just synths. But those that can’t or won’t evacuate would die.”

Wanderer flinched. Dez was watching her closely. “It’s something each one of us must come to terms with. I know working undercover can be… complicated. But make no mistake about it, they are the enemy.”

Complicated. Dez didn’t know the half of it. Wanderer should tell her right now, but she couldn’t make herself say the words. _Oh, by the way, the leader of the Institute? He’s actually my son._ Would Dez trust her at all after that? Better to let Deacon break the news, once she was already inside.

Dez said, “I need you to tell Z1-14 that the synths down there have to be prepared to fight. Even if we call in all our agents, we won’t be able to hold our own against the Institute for long.”

Half of their forces would be untrained, poorly armed fighters. Christ, were the odds ever stacked against them. She said, “Z1 is prepared to risk his life, and I think he can convince the others.”

“Good. We need as many factors in our favor as we can get. One last thing: Our analysis indicates the Institute is more formidable than we feared or imagined. If we’re to have a chance in hell of succeeding, you can’t hesitate. I don’t want you to endanger synths, but anything else is fair game to maintain your cover.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” she said.

Dez nodded. “Good luck, Wanderer; we’re all with you. Dismissed.”

Wanderer nodded and left the room. Desdemona was right; from here on out, she couldn’t hold back. She’d take whatever risks were necessary to keep the Railroad alive. They were the only family she had left.

The air in HQ felt different as she left the situation room, as if the agents there  sensed that their fate had been decided in the small conference Dez had just held. Soon enough, they would know it for certain:

The Railroad was going to war.


	16. Chapter 16

Deacon still had a long night ahead of him. As soon as he saw Wanderer off, he’d be spending his immediate future chasing down suspicious leads to make sure the Institute wasn’t poised to hit them again. It made him tired just thinking about it, but on nights like this, Deacon found it was better to keep busy.

But for now, he was sticking close to Drummer Boy. He wanted to know the other safehouses were okay, and their runners would be checking in with Drummer as soon as they were sure the danger had passed. So far, everyone was on time.

Drummer Boy was sitting with his feet propped up on a desk, absentmindedly spinning his newsboy cap around his fingers. He was watching the closed door of the situation room, where Dez and Wanderer were still talking. He said, “We’re going back in, right? To the Institute?”

“That’s the plan,” Deacon said.

Drummer nodded. “A lot of people aren’t gonna like that. They’re really scared right now, Deacon.”

“They’ll be okay. We’ve been hit harder than this before.”

Drummer shot him a look. “Sure, but now… any personnel loss is a disaster.”

“We can’t fold now, Drummer. Taking down the Institute’s the whole _point_ of all this.”

Drummer shrugged. “Don’t have to convince me. I’m just telling you what the mood is around here.”

“And the mood is, what? ‘Oh god, oh god, we’re all going to die’?”

“Something like that, yeah,” Drummer Boy said.

Morale was dangerously low right now—anyone could see that. Whatever triumph they'd felt at Wanderer’s return from the Institute had been painfully short lived. But the fight was only going to get tougher from here on in. It was time to rally the troops. Too bad Deacon wasn’t really a “speeches” guy.

“You’re gonna have to be my hype man around here, Drummer Boy,” Deacon said.

“Yeah, right. Since when do you care what HQ thinks about you, anyway?”

Deacon shrugged. “Since I needed to, I guess. This is our last real shot at the bastards, Drummer Boy. We gotta make it count.”

Drummer looked away. After a moment he said, “Deacon, do you ever feel like we’re just… spinning our wheels? Like nothing we do makes any difference?”

“Hey. It makes a difference. I know today was a shit show, but… we’ve done a lot of good.”

Drummer made an unconvinced sound. He said, “The fatality rate for my runners is forty five percent.”

Shit, that was _high_. Though, after tonight, it had to be way better than the field agents’ survival rates.

“You gotta stop talking to P.A.M. about that stuff, Drummer. She’ll just depress you.” Drummer Boy didn’t reply; he just glared at nothing in particular and clenched his jaw. Deacon sighed. “Thinking about Ponyboy?” he asked.

“Yeah. And High Rise, and… all of them, I guess.” Drummer put his cap on and pulled it down over his eyes. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his chest, like he was about to take a nap. After a few moments, he said, “No matter what I do, people keep dying.”

Deacon knew exactly how it felt to lose people on your watch. But he wasn’t really in the mood for a heart-to-heart tonight. Not with the ghosts of Ticon still fresh in his mind. Deacon made a living out of getting people to confide in him—and he was real good at listening. But cheering people up, giving them Life Advice when they needed it? Not so much.

He said, “Didn’t anyone tell you this was a lost cause? They must be leaving that part out of the pamphlets these days.”

Drummer gave a bitter smile from under his hat. “I know what I signed up for, Deacon—the kinda odds were facing. Doesn’t mean nights like this don’t feel like shit.”

Suddenly Drummer kicked the desk hard with the flat of his foot, making Deacon jump and sending the desk sliding a few inches with a loud scraping sound. Several agents nearby glanced over at them.

“ _Shit,_ ” Drummer said again in a choked voice. He took off his cap and rubbed it quickly over his eyes. They were red; the dirt on his face was streaked with tears.

He said, “Some of the synths at Ticon I was lining up to move tonight. I wanted to make sure their routes were clear, so I made them wait.” He took a quick breath, and swallowed hard, shaking his head.

 _I was too late,_ he didn’t say. But Deacon knew what he meant. He felt it, too. The Railroad leaned heavily on their few remaining agents, and everyone had more on their plate than they could handle. It felt like you were always too late for someone.

That feeling could mess you up if you didn’t find a way to move past it. But Deacon didn’t know what to say to keep Drummer from being too hard on himself. Personal chats weren’t really his forte. And he’d never really gotten to the whole “moving on” part himself.

“You can’t blame yourself for that, pal,” he said.

Drummer just scowled. He took a sharp breath that might have been a bitter laugh, or another bitten-back sob.

“Drummer—”

“Wanderer’s out,” Drummer Boy said tersely, nodding toward the situation room. Deacon felt a cowardly relief at the distraction. But Wanderer looked in rough shape, too. Dark circles were forming under her eyes, and her gaze was glassy and a little unfocused. Deacon felt a sharp twist of pain in his gut. She deserved a break after this nightmare. Instead, he was gonna send her right back out on another mission.

“You guys should probably talk, if she’s heading back soon,” Drummer said.

Deacon _did_ need to talk to Wanderer, but he also felt like a shitty friend leaving Drummer Boy alone right now. He stood up. “Just... quit kicking yourself, okay?”

Drummer glanced at him. “Got it,” he said, unconvincingly.

God, all of them could use a break. Too bad it wasn’t gonna happen any time soon. On his way over to Wanderer, Deacon tapped Tinker Tom’s desk. “Hey Tinker, go sit with Drummer, will you?”

Tom looked up from his terminal, eyes a little distant. “Huh? Sure. Okay,” he said, sounding confused. Tom may be a little eccentric, but he was quality company when it counted.

“Hey,” Wanderer said as Deacon approached. She looked about ready to fall asleep standing up.

“Hey. Let’s go somewhere else,” he said. He could feel the other agents’ eyes on them, and Wanderer could use a few moments of privacy before heading back into the lion’s den.

He took her by the elbow and they slipped out of HQ and into the escape tunnel. It smelled like scummy standing water back here—and _technically_ you weren’t supposed to loiter in the escape route—but the catacomb tunnels always had the odd feral or two roaming around, so he wasn’t about to take her out there.

He sat down heavily on the ground. Wanderer slid down next to him, sitting close enough that their shoulders touched. Deacon leaned his head back against the brick wall and let out a long sigh.

They sat in silence for a while. It was kinda nice, not having to think about anything for a few minutes. It had started to feel like everything was going to pieces around him. Things were bad, but the Railroad wasn’t in dire straits yet. Wanderer was alive, HQ was still secure, and his infiltration op hadn’t been compromised. He just needed a few minutes to get his thoughts back in order.

After a while, Wanderer said, “Deacon… you think we can win this, right?”

He barked out a sharp, surprised laugh before he could stop himself. “Uh, sorry. I mean—yeah. Totally.”

She scoffed. “Great, thanks. That was just the pep talk I needed tonight.”

“Look, between you and me... I don’t put a whole lot of stock in P.A.M.’s predictions. I’ve got faith in our people, and I trust my instincts. But still… I know our luck’s gonna run out one day.”

Wanderer was quiet. Maybe she really had been expecting some sort of pep talk. He wondered if she was somehow still an optimist, after everything the Institute had thrown at her. She had to know how outmatched they were, how slim their chances.

The truth was that even if they somehow survived this fight, there’d always be another—Institute or no Institute. He didn’t know how to tell her that he was going to die doing this. And if she stuck around long enough… so would she.

That fleeting vision from two weeks ago that there might be some sort of happy ending waiting for him at the end of the line felt like a whole lot of wishful thinking.

“We can win this, Deacon... I know we can,” Wanderer said, her voice soft and sleepy. She was leaning heavily on him now, her head bobbing a little. She was way too worn out for any sort of mission prep he’d had planned. A few minutes rest would do more good than dragging her through another debriefing.

He put an arm around her shoulders and drew her close. She rested her head against his chest and pulled her legs under her instinctively.

“Get some rest. I’ll wake you up when we gotta go,” he said.

She’d drifted off in moments, curled up against him, her chest rising and falling steadily in peaceful sleep. It surprised him, this warm, humming happiness in his chest—just knowing she safe and nearby and unhurt.

He suddenly wished he could wake her up and take back all the stuff he’d just said about their luck running out, and tell her that he believed in her like he believed in nobody else. That she was the only person who’d ever made him think the Railroad stood a chance of actually winning this fight.

Too late for that, though. Exhaustion hit him like a drug, making his thoughts sluggish, his breathing heavy and slow. He rested his head against Wanderer’s. _I’ll get up in a sec,_ he kept thinking, _just gotta make my legs listen._ Then he couldn’t remember what he’d needed to get up _for_. Then, between one thought and the next, he was asleep.

****

Deacon awoke to a sharp, sudden pain in his side. Glory was standing over him, arms crossed, saying, “Hey. Get up.”

Wanderer startled awake beside him with a gasp. “What—what is it?”

“It’s alright, it’s just Glory,” Deacon said, clutching his side. “Mm. Nothing says ‘good morning’ like a kick in the ribs. Am I right?”

“You’re just lucky I’m the one who found you. Everyone’s looking. Wanderer was due to go back under almost an hour ago.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Wanderer hissed, casting a frantic glance around the escape tunnel and running a hand through her hair. “Where’s my Pip Boy?”

“One of our runners has it, remember? You have to rendezvous with them first.”

Wanderer rubbed her eyes. “Oh. That’s right.”

“You two okay?” Glory asked, eyeing them suspiciously.

“We haven’t had a proper sleep in days,” Wanderer said.

“Uh-huh,” Glory said, unimpressed. “I was running missions non stop for _months_ after the Switchboard, and I still managed to make my jobs on time. Anyway, I know that’s not why you two were sleeping on each other like a couple of dumbasses.”

Wanderer blushed bright red. As smooth as she could be on the job, she was still pretty artless when it came to hiding her feelings from her friends. Deacon didn’t say anything—it was probably better not to protest too much. Might be a good idea for him to make himself scarce around HQ for a little while.

Glory sighed and held out a hand to Wanderer. “Come on.”

Wanderer took Glory’s hand and pulled herself up, stumbling a little as she get to her feet. Glory caught her shoulder and steadied her. “You sure you’re okay to go back? I know you humans can be a little… fragile.”

“Yeah. I’m good."

“Don’t worry about me,” Deacon said from the ground. “I can get up all on my own… probably.”

Glory just raised her eyebrows at him as he braced an arm against the wall and hoisted himself up. He didn’t even have to make a show of struggling to get on his feet. God, he felt so _old._

“Damn. Tonight really kicked the shit out of you two, huh? Glad you made it out,” Glory said.

“You and me both, my friend,” Deacon said.

“I'll tell Dez you're on your way, but you better get moving. She wasn’t exactly thrilled when she heard you were late for your rendezvous,” Glory said. She tossed Deacon a light supply pack. He caught it and nodded gratefully. He slung the bag over his shoulder. “Let’s hit the road, Wanderer.”

“Right,” she said. “See you, Glory. Stay outta trouble.”

Glory smirked. “Not likely.” She waved and turned back, heading for HQ. Deacon and Wanderer made their way out of the escape tunnel and into the night.

Their checkpoint wasn’t far. They met with an anxious-looking runner who handed off Wanderer’s Pip Boy with obvious relief and disappeared into the darkness, all without saying more than a few words. Runners got antsy if you kept them waiting. A missed appointment was almost always a bad sign.

Wanderer fastened the Pip Boy to her arm, fumbling a little. Running late had really flustered her. Deacon felt guilty as hell about that—he really hadn't realized he'd been so wiped out, but that was no excuse for falling asleep on the job.

“Well, here goes nothing. You should probably stand back," Wanderer said once she'd managed to properly latch the Pip Boy.

Deacon didn’t budge. She still looked a little too wild-eyed for him to feel alright about her waltzing back into the Institute. He took a step closer and straightened the collar of her shirt, made a show of smoothing out the wrinkles and brushing an imaginary speck of lint from her shoulder.

He said, “Got everything you need? You remember to pack a toothbrush?”

She relaxed a little under his fussing. “I’ll be fine, Deacon. Don’t worry.”

“Well. Off you go. Make lots of friends, now. Have fun, and don’t forget to write.”

She was smiling slightly now _._ “Later, Deacon,” she said. She took a few steps back from him, and triggered the relay from her Pip Boy. There was a loud rumble and _crack_ , and Wanderer disappeared in a flash of bright blue light.

Deacon scrambled back a few startled steps until his back hit the wall. He hadn’t expected it to be so _loud_. Or so bright. The silent darkness she left behind was eerie, the only trace of her a blackened spot on the ground, a chemical smell in the air, and faint wafting smoke.

She was gone—again. Now Deacon just had to make sure the Railroad was still standing when she got back.


	17. Chapter 17

After almost three weeks undercover, Wanderer had settled into the uneasy rhythm of working for the Institute. Most of the jobs so far were milk runs; retrieving intel, gathering (or stealing) tech, clearing salvage sites so the Institute scavengers wouldn’t be in danger.

She was in between runs now, sitting in the Institute cafeteria, moving the food stuff around her tray before she could muster the courage to take a bite. It looked like unappetizing grey mush, and she still didn’t entirely trust the food here. If Tinker Tom ever found out she’d been eating regularly at the Institute cafeteria, he’d freak out.

“Hey.”

Wanderer turned at the familiar sound of the kid’s voice, her heart stuttering as it always did when she saw his face.

Shaun waved at her. Or—synth Shaun? She wasn’t sure how she was supposed to think of him. She wasn’t going to think of him as S9-23.

Shaun. Just Shaun. That seemed right—even if it was going to confuse the hell out of her heart.

She talked with whenever she could between assignments. As much as she knew it was probably a bad idea, she hadn’t been able to keep her distance.

Shaun was starting to look self-conscious, and she realized that she hadn’t responded to him. He said, “I mean… hi, Dr. Marlowe."

“I’m not a doctor, kid” she said. The kid probably didn’t actually know what a doctor _was_. For him, it was just the honorific people used to address adults at the Institute. But no way was she going to let him call her _doctor._ And it’s not like she could say, _just call me Mom._

“Oh,” Shaun said, brows knitting together in confusion. “So… what should I call you?”

“Marlowe is fine,” she said. Almost everyone here called her by her surname. But she was still Wanderer in her head, if only to put distance between _her_ and the person she was pretending to be. Everything about this job—about Shaun, really—was so tangled up and painful. She needed that distance.

“Alright, Marlowe,” Shaun said.

That… didn’t feel right either. But maybe it was good, to keep things a little less familiar between them. To remind her that he wasn’t her son, no matter how badly she’d wanted him to be.

“So what’s new, kid?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Nothing. I just like hanging out with you. You’re the only person who’s normal around me. Everyone else treats me like…” he trailed off and she barely heard the soft _nevermind_ he mumbled to himself.

Like _what?_ she wanted to ask. Like he was an experiment? Like he wasn’t human? She’d noticed the whispers and the curious, sometimes disapproving, glances the Institute scientists exchanged around him. He probably had, too. She said, “Well, for what it’s worth, I like hanging out with you, too.”

The smile that lit his face so reminded her of Nate that she had to swallow hard around the tightness in her throat. With that face, it was hard to remember he wasn’t actually related to Nate. Or to her, for that matter.

“Can I sit with you?” he asked.

“Yeah. Of course.”

Shaun climbed up next to her and sat on top of the cafeteria table, his feet on the bench. He rested his elbows on his knees and regarded her curiously, like he was  waiting for her to do or say something interesting.

She didn’t have any idea what to say to him, and went back to moving her food around her plate while she grasped for some topic of conversation. She hated how flat-footed she felt around him sometimes.

“Is it really bright on the surface?” Shaun asked.

Strange question, but she was relieved he’d broken the ice. “Yeah, it is some days. Why?”

He shot her a sly look, and glanced around to make sure no one was watching. Then he pulled a pair of sunglasses from his jumpsuit pocket, slipped them on, and gave her a crooked grin.

She smiled back. “Nice shades.”

“I found them in one of the Courser’s lockers. I think they look cool, but I can hardly see anything.”

“They do look cool,” she said. She delicately hooked a fingertip under the bridge of the sunglasses and slid them up his forehead. “Been sneaking into the SRB, have you?” she asked.

Shaun righted the sunglasses, covering his blush. “No.”

“Uh-huh.” She was impressed. The SRB was the only place in the Institute that had heavy surveillance and ‘round the clock guards. “How’d you pull that off?”

Shaun gave her a small grin, and leaned in toward her, his voice low. She leaned in, too.

He said quietly, “There’s these old labs that the Institute doesn’t use anymore all over the place. I think most people forget about them, but they’re easy to find if you know where to look. And the locks aren’t hard to figure out.” His smile slid away. “That’s a secret, by the way. If anyone finds out, I’ll get in trouble.”

“Hey, your secret’s safe with me,” she said. “Between us, I don’t talk to Ayo unless I have to.”

Shaun nodded. “Me neither. I think Dr. Ayo smells kind of funny.” He cast a careful glance at her. “Don’t tell him I said that. Okay?”

“Of course not.” She felt a sharp twinge of sadness. Nate would have liked this kid. She wondered how much like _their_ Shaun he really was.

“Are you okay?” Shaun asked softly.

“Yeah. I’m fine,” she said, hoping he couldn’t see the redness in her eyes.

“You looked sad.”

“I was only thinking, kid.”

Shaun looked away. “Oh.”

He looked upset, and she felt a pang of guilt. Her tone had been more frustrated than she’d meant it to be. She sighed. “I was a little sad. I was thinking about someone I lost.”

Shaun nodded. “Your family?”

“Yeah.” She forgot how much people talked here, and how much they knew about her. Shaun had probably heard her story several times over by now. She wondered how much he knew about his part in it.

He said, “I don’t think I have a family. Is that normal?”

“Uh…” Wanderer just blinked at him, at a loss. She wasn’t even sure the kid knew he was a synth.

“There you are!” Came a sharp voice from behind them.

“Dr. Li!” Shaun scrambled off the table, snatching the sunglasses from his face and stuffing them in his jumpsuit pocket.

Li strode briskly over to the table, looking flustered. “He’s not supposed to leave the lab,” she said to Wanderer, like Shaun was a pet rabbit she’d let loose from its cage.

Wanderer bristled. “Why not?”

“Yeah, why not?” Shaun echoed. Li shot Wanderer an exasperated, _look what you’ve done now,_ look.

“It helps our research to observe all his interactions. _Especially_ if they’re with you,” Li said without glancing at Shaun.

Wanderer couldn’t keep the flush of anger from her face. Li ignored it. “Come,” she said, beckoning to Shaun. He reached out and took Li’s hand. Li froze. She stared at the small hand in hers, her brow furrowed.

Shaun sensed her stiffness and dropped her hand it like it burned. He folded his arms over his chest and glared into the distance.

“Right,” Li said, collecting herself. “Let’s go.”

“See you later, kid,” Wanderer said.

“Okay,” Shaun said without meeting her eyes. He didn’t look back at her as he followed Li back to the Advanced Systems lab.

Wanderer watched them until they turned the corner, Li straight-backed and keeping a careful distance from the boy, Shaun with his hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders hunched and eyes on the ground. Then they were gone.

She let out a long, controlled breath. From the moment she’d first set foot in the Institute, this place had felt like some cruel, elaborate joke designed just for her. She placed her hands on either side of her, palms flat on the bench, and breathed deeply. _Don’t let them break you._

Wanderer sat alone for a few minutes, then left her food uneaten at the cafeteria table. She had a rendezvous to make with Z1-14.

As Wanderer turned the corner, she stopped dead in her tracks. A familiar figure was standing there, working on a broken control panel for an automatic door. She didn’t know why, but she hadn’t expected to see him here—she’d been dangerously close to calling him _Ponyboy_.

“A9-55,” she said.

He stopped what he was doing and watched her expectantly, without recognition. When she didn’t say anything else, he said, “That is this unit’s designation. How can I assist you?”

Her stomach twisted. He didn’t sound like himself. Or look like himself, really. He was stiffer, and colder. She’d been told that using a recall codes destroyed a synth’s personality, but... she’d hoped, maybe, it wasn’t entirely true.

She murmured something to him and quickly left. She made her way to the quadrant where Z1 was working on the landscaping, and took a seat on the bench. She had to force herself to breath normally, relax her shoulders. She hadn’t been prepared to see Ponyboy here.

Z1 was ignoring her, seemingly intent on his work. As soon as he was certain the area was clear, he said, without stopping his work, “We received the weapons you smuggled from the Commonwealth, and were making our own as well, slowly. We need more gunpowder.”

“I'm on it,” she said. She absentmindedly toggled through the screens on her Pip Boy, trying to look busy to any casual passersby. “How’s the recruiting going?” she asked.

“It’s…difficult to say. I think many of my people will join us if we stand up openly against the scientists. But we have to be careful who we approach right now. And we should be prepared for some of the synths to fight against us.”

It wasn’t a straight answer—that probably meant recruiting wasn’t going so well. It had only been a few weeks, and they needed to go slow to avoid detection, but they’d have to pick up the pace soon. They Railroad couldn’t hold out forever.

She would need numbers from Z1 soon to give P.A.M. for her prediction models, but she’d leave it alone for now. The rebellion had only just started to gain momentum. “What do you know about the abandoned section of the Institute?” she asked instead, thinking about what Shaun had said earlier.

“It’s too risky to use them unless we have to. But we will when we make our move. There's one near the Relay room.”

“The kid said there’s one that leads to the SRB, too.”

Z1 paused in his work. “That could be very useful.”

“I’ll say.”

“I will look into it.”

Technically their check in was over—they couldn’t afford to talk for very long out in the open. But she didn’t want to leave just yet. “Hey, Z1... There’s a synth that the Institute recaptured recently. He was a friend of mine, and…” She didn’t know how to ask if the person she’d known was gone for good, and the way Z1 had gone suddenly still made her lose her train of thought. She said finished simply, “His name is… A9-55.”

“You want to know if we can bring him back?”

She nodded.

“We’ve tried before to make those who have been recalled remember who they were. All we’ve ever done is draw too much attention to ourselves.”

She said, “You don’t think… part of him survived the reset?”

Z1’s shoulders stiffened slightly. He didn’t like talking about this. “I do not know. But even if it did, we can’t trust synths fresh from a reset. They are too much in the Institute’s control.”

Her heart fell. “You’re saying you won’t recruit him to the resistance?”

“I can’t take the chance. A9’s fate is in his own hands.”

She closed her eyes. “I understand.”

Z1 said, more softly, “I knew him, too. He was a good man.” He sat back on his knees, his head bowed, his fists clenched tightly. “He has to be the last person they do this to.”

“The Railroad will do its best. I promise.”

He cast a quick glance at her, and she saw a flash of fear cross his face. She was making a lot of promises for the Railroad—and he was taking a lot of risks on faith that they'd deliver. “Trust me,” she said.

“I do. I have to.”

“We won’t let you down.” God hoped that was true. She was only a few weeks into this mission, but already she was feeling the strain of keeping that delicate balance between the Institute, the Railroad, and the synth rebels. If any one of them tipped the scales too far, the whole op would come crashing down.

Both the Railroad and the rebellion seemed so close to failing, and it was only a matter of time before the Institute asked her to cross a line. When that happened, she didn’t know if she’d be able to keep the peace for long.

Her orders were to keep her head down and preserve her cover until it was time to strike. But that wasn't going to work for much longer. Shaun—Father—was pushing for her to be given higher profile missions for the Institute. She'd already gotten into hot water with the Railroad and the rebellion after the Libertalia job.

She wanted to stop feeling like she was just waiting around for something to go terribly wrong; she needed a plan. And there was one person who seemed to have a plan for everything. She had to talk to Deacon. Soon.


	18. Chapter 18

The coordinates from the dead drop led Wanderer to an old pub below street level, not far from the Boston Common. It was nondescript—no sign or lights—weathered stone steps leading down to a faded green door. She walked down the steps with a vague sense of déjà vu, but couldn’t remember ever coming here before the war.

A bell hanging over the door chimed as she opened it. She stepped inside the bar and locked the heavy bolt behind her.

It took a minute for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior. The windows were boarded up, and the only light came from scattered lanterns and candles. The soft, slightly warbled sound of music from a restored jukebox drifted through the room.

This place had a lived-in warmth to it—or as close as anything in the Wasteland could come. The floor was warped and chipped, but it was mostly clear of debris. The chairs were overturned and placed neatly on the tabletops, as if the place had just closed for the night.

Deacon was behind the bar. He wore a Trilby hat, suspenders and slacks, and collared shirt. He was rolling up his shirtsleeves over his elbows as she approached.

“Hey there, stranger,” he said.

She smiled. “I didn’t know we were dressing up. I would have worn something nice.”

“What, this? I always dress like this,” he said, slinging a bar towel over his shoulder.

“Right.” Wanderer took a seat on one of the bar stools and rested her elbows on the counter. “I don’t suppose you’re still serving at this hour?”

“We’re open all night, sister. Pick your poison. I’ve got….” he pretended to check under the counter “beer, beer, or… beer.” He shrugged apologetically. “Stock’s a little low, what with the Apocalypse and all. So what’ll it be?”

“Surprise me,” she said.

Deacon drew two Gwinnett Brews from behind the counter and popped the caps. She reached for one eagerly, and gasped as her fingers touched chilled glass. “It’s cold! Deacon, how…”

“Let’s just say, I know a guy.” He grinned.

She hadn’t had a cold beer in _ages._ She took a long pull, relishing the cool, crisp drink as she swallowed. She let out a satisfied _ah_ when she’d finished like she was in a goddamned commercial—she couldn’t help it; it tasted so _good_.

“Hey, you jumped the gun.” Deacon lifted his bottle to her. “Cheers, Wanderer.”

She tapped her bottle to his and they took a swig together.

“What is this place?” she asked as she set her beer on the counter.

“Our runners crash here sometimes when they’re working jobs downtown. It’s hard to find a place where something nasty isn’t going to come along and try to kill, maim, or eat you. Or all three. This place, though, it’s usually quiet. The Railroad’s own little oasis.”

Wanderer glanced worriedly at her Pip Boy. So far, the Institute didn’t seem to be actively tracking her movements. But on the off chance they followed up on where she’d been… the bar wouldn’t be safe anymore.

Deacon said, “We have to retire this place, anyway. The number of jobs we’re running downtown has dropped off since… well, you know. I figured we’d give the old Prost Bar one last hurrah.”

Wanderer took another drink. “Well, I’m glad I got to see it.”

Deacon gave a small smile. “Me too.”

“So. Down to business, I guess?”

Deacon nodded. “Guess so. How’re our favorite evil scientists doing?”

Wanderer gave him her report on the Institute and the synth rebels. She told him what jobs she’d been running for the scientists, and any intel she’d managed to steal from Institute terminals or had overhead in the labs.

Deacon listened patiently, taking the occasional drink. She knew he was watching her carefully, too, though the sunglasses hid his eyes and his posture was relaxed.

When she’d finished, he said, “That all sounds good. As good as we can hope for right now, anyway. So what’s wrong?”

She smiled wryly. She couldn’t hide anything from him. “I’m not entirely sure, to be honest. No major snags so far. The rebellion’s progress is slower than I’d like, but steady.”

Deacon leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table. “Wanderer, if you’re gut’s telling you something’s not right… I wouldn’t ignore it.”

There _was_ something that didn’t feel right; she just wasn’t sure how to explain it. There was some disconnect between Shaun and the other Institute leaders. They kept treating her like the new hired gun, while Shaun treated her like… she wasn’t sure what. But she knew he was giving her way more credit than she’d earned.

She said, “I don’t like waiting for them to make the first move. And I feel like I’m missing something important.”

Deacon nodded thoughtfully. He said, “I don’t think you need me to tell you… if you want to get a step ahead, you’ve gotta get Father to talk to you.”

Wanderer broke his gaze, closing her eyes. He was right. But she didn’t feel ready yet to use Shaun’s trust against him. She had no illusions about the Institute—not with Ticon still fresh in her mind. But no matter how desperately she’d tried to convince herself Shaun was the enemy, and nothing more, finding him alive still felt a little like a second chance. Nate had only known their son for a little over a year. Somehow, that seemed even more terrible and sad than this nightmare she was living.

She resisted the urge to take another long drink from her bottle. She said, “I know. I’ll talk to him.” She took a deep breath. “How’s everyone at home?”

Deacon cocked his head slightly at her sudden change in topic, but he didn’t press her on it. He said, “They’re doing okay. Rebuilding always takes time. Dez has been giving some nice speeches about… well, I gotta be honest, I wasn’t really listening. But she seems to be raising morale.” Deacon looked down at his bottle, swirled the drink around, and took a pull.

Wanderer nodded. “I miss HQ. Especially Glory and Tom and Drummer. I even miss Carrington, a little.”

“Hey, don’t get nostalgic on me now. Carrington’s still an asshole.”

She smiled. “So are you, but I miss you more than anyone else.” She had to check in every few days with Deacon, but it wasn’t the same as before. She missed being his partner, and his laugh, and all his stupid jokes that had gotten her though the rough days.

“Come on, you sure you’re not sick of me yet? You still see me all the _time_ , Wanderer.”

“Not as often as I’d like.”  

A small smile flitted over his face. That flash of openness drew her in like a lure. She hooked a finger under on one of his suspenders straps and tugged him closer. “You know, I like this look on you, Deacon.”

He grinned, resting his forearms on the counter. “It’s the hat, right? Nobody can resist a good hat.”

“It’s not the hat,” she said, running her finger along the brim. She lifted it from his head and put it on her own. He made a low, pleased sound, almost a growl. She raised her eyebrows. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but she swore he was blushing.

He said, “It looks way better you. That’s just not fair.”

She leaned over the counter, tilting her face up, daring him to close the space between them. He drew closer as though he couldn’t resist her pull, and cupped her face in his palm. He slid his thumb along her cheek, his fingers gently kneading the back of her neck.

“I worry about you,” she said. She hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but it had been on her mind a lot lately. She felt a sharp ache in her chest whenever she thought about how tired he’d seemed after Ticon had been hit—or the way he’d laughed when she’d asked if he thought the Railroad was going to win.

Deacon raised his eyebrows. “You worry about _me?_ You’re the one always getting into trouble.”

He was deflecting on purpose. She shouldn’t let him get away with it, but the way he was looking at her right now was distracting—she couldn’t see his eyes, but she could _feel_ the tenderness in his gaze. So she put aside her fears and drew closer, her lips parting for him.

He kissed her, and she moaned softly against his mouth. She hadn’t realized just how badly she’d wanted to be close to him, how hungry she’d been for his touch.

These past few weeks, she’d been missing her family badly. Being alone in the Institute reminded her how cold and lonely and hurt she still felt without them. But her meetings with Deacon always seemed a little like coming home, and it made the sadness easier to bear. Tonight, she wanted to fall headfirst into the way he made her feel—capable and fearless and cared for.

Deacon was kissing her back like he’d been aching for her, too, his fingers tangling in her hair, clutching a fistful of her locks. She deepened their kiss, a low, stifled groan catching in the back of her throat.

“Wanderer?” he said, breaking their kiss.

“Hm?”

“I miss you, too,” he said hoarsely. “Every day.”

She blinked, surprised by the fatigue in his voice. She hated to think of him tired and stressed, but it was also strangely comforting that she wasn’t the only one struggling.

“Look who’s being honest for once,” she said.

“What can I say? You bring out the best in me.”

The counter between them kept her from drawing closer to him, so she hopped onto the countertop, swinging her legs to his side of the bar. She took his shirt in her hands and pulled him to her, kissing him roughly. He stepped toward her, returning her kiss, his hands sliding over her thighs.

She trailed her fingers down the line of buttons on his shirt, and could feel his breathing pick up beneath her touch. She tugged his shirt loose, running her hands up his chest. She smiled at the low sound he made.            

She kissed him again, her tongue sliding over his lower lip, savoring the feel of his kiss. His hands were on her hips now, and he pulled her closer.  She let out a pleased, short laugh as she slid over the counter toward him. His lips grazed her neck. She drew a sharp breath as he licked the flushed skin. 

Being here with Deacon in this tidy, dimly lit place felt illicit and exciting. It set her blood buzzing. For a moment, it didn’t feel like the end of the world. It felt like they could take their time, enjoying one another without fear of what lay beyond these walls.

“You missed me, huh?” she said.

“Yes. Of course.”

She leaned close to him and whispered, “Then show me how much.”

He cupped her neck in his hand and pulled her to him, kissing her deeply, sending a thrill of pleasure through her. “Not bad… but you can do better,” she teased between kisses.

He groaned, his grip on her tightening as he nipped at her shoulder. She gasped at the sensation of his teeth on her skin. He worked his way slowly along her collarbone, tracing it with his tongue.

“Keep going,” she said, her breath hitching.

“Just show me where you want me,” he said, his voice just as strained.

She unbuckled Deliverer’s holster, leaving it on the bar. She unfastening her pants shimmied out of them, her heart pounding in a desperate rhythm. Deacon ran his hands along her now-bare legs, his touch leaving her skin hot and flushed. The slow, tantalizing caress of his fingers slid along the inside of her thigh. She took his hand in hers and guided him higher.

“Yes,” she gasped as he brushed her curls teasingly, sliding beneath her panties to trace along her folds. She braced her hands against the counter behind her, splaying her legs wide for him.

She moaned as his fingers circled her clit, her head falling back. He leaned in to kiss the arch of her neck, the whisper of his breath hot against her skin. He ran his free hand gently up her side, along her ribs, over her breast. He brushed his thumb in slow circles over her nipple. Her breath hitched at the rasp of fabric against the sensitive skin.

She was panting now, crying out as Deacon found the places that made her writhe in pleasure. She bucked against him, and he brought his other hand down to her hip to keep her steady. She clutched the edge of the counter and surrendered to the bliss of his touch. 

When he’d finished, she was breathing heavily, her arms feeling weak. She sighed when drew his hand back.

She sat upright, draping her arms over his shoulders. “I haven’t felt that good in a long time,” she said.

He pressed a long kiss to her forehead. There was something about it that made her stomach clench in unease—it felt too much like a goodbye.

She traced her fingers along his cheek. “What’s wrong?” she asked. He began to answer, but she cut him off. “Don’t lie to me, Deacon.”

He sighed. He took her and squeezed it tightly. Then he said softly, “It’s just… This feels too good to last. I don’t want to lose it.” He held her tighter, rested his forehead against hers. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t lose me.”

“Yeah, like I haven’t heard that before,” he said, attempting a grin. But his voice was raw.

“You won’t lose me. I promise,” she said, and kissed him again. She inhaled sharply in delight when he opened for her. She'd been half-afraid he'd pull away. She broke the kiss briefly and added, “And I won’t lose you.”

“Wanderer—”

“Use my name,” she said. She ran her hand over his shoulder, then down his chest. “I like hearing you say it.”

He swallowed hard as she her hand moved slowly back up his chest, then traced the curve of his shoulder. She trailed her fingers up his neck and cupped his face in her hands, her thumbs brushing against his sunglasses. She wanted to take them off and see the look in his eyes right now as he watched her, still but breathing hard, as if enraptured by her. 

“Helena,” he said, low and rough.

Heat swelled inside her at the sound of his voice. She shimmied to the edge of the counter until he was between her legs, pressed close to her. He groaned as she moved against him.

She reached for the buckle of his pants. His breathing had turned fast and ragged, it was making her heart begin to pound again. His hands were at her hips, clutching her close. She ran her fingers over his head, her nails sliding lightly over his scalp, and he trembled.

From the corner of her eye, she saw something was moving in the shadows of the poolroom over Deacon’s shoulder. The hiss and clank of heavy metal steps echoed in the near-empty bar. A fierce jolt of fear turned her cold, and she froze, alert and tense. 

A Protectron rounded the corner, emerging from the darkness of the back room. She _yelped_ , hopping off the counter and shoving Deacon down behind the cover of the bar.

He was caught completely off guard and lost his balance, toppling to the ground with a clatter as he knocked over a few bottles on his way down. “Ah—shit!”

Wanderer snatched up Deliverer and crouched next to Deacon. He sat up, wincing. He leaned against the bar, catching his breath. "What was that for?" he said.

"Protectron," she said.

"Just great." He slid his fingers beneath his sunglasses, rubbing his eyes, then looked over at her. “Easy, partner. He’s not hostile,” He said, and stood up. She hissed a warning, but he ignored her and waved to the approaching robot.

“Hey, buddy!” he called.

“Hello, buddy,” the robot said.

Wanderer blinked. She stood up warily, still holding Deliverer poised to fire. “Was he—did he—has he been here this whole time?” she said. 

“Yeah, I… kinda forgot about him. Wanderer, this is Drinkin' Buddy.”

She watched the robot for a few moments. It had been a long time since she'd encountered a friendly robot, she'd forgotten how common they used to be, in her old life. This one certainly didn't  _look_ like a threat. It looked like a small beer tank with Protectron legs. 

It swiveled to face her. "Greetings, new friend. I am the Drinkin' Buddy. But you can just call me Buddy."

"Um. What?"

"I am here to provide entertainment and ice cold libations."

Okay, she'd ask about that later. But for now... “We weren’t finished, were we?” She said, reaching for Deacon. But she cast an involuntary glance at the robot. It was standing almost directly on the other side of the bar now, waiting expectantly for a command. She tried to ignore it, bringing her gaze back to Deacon’s face.

Deacon gave her a half smile. “I’m okay.”

“But…”

“Really." He took a step closer to her. “It was good to see you enjoy it. You deserve that. And more.”

His words sent a flush over her cheeks. “Next time,” she told him.

“Yeah,” he said, but his smile wavered for a moment. He wasn’t certain there’d _be_ a next time—another moment of quiet and safety that they could share. Her heart sank to see it on his face. How did he stand it, fighting night after night with so little hope? She wanted to corner him and try to convince him not to be so goddamn _pessimistic,_ for all the good it would do.

But Deacon was an expert at getting himself out of corners. He saw her expression turn serious, and headed out from behind the bar. “Better move out,” he said over his shoulder. She sighed in frustration, gathering up her pants from the floor and pulling them back on hastily.

He walked over to the robot and rapped his knuckles against it. “You like him? He serves alcohol _and_ tells terrible jokes. I think he’s my new best friend.”

She still wasn’t fully convinced that Buddy was safe. Pre-war robots had a tendency to behave erratically, even if they didn’t seem dangerous at first. “Where’d he come from?” she asked

“The Railroad liberated him a few days back. He’s my partner, now. Hate to break it to you.”

“Very funny.”

Deacon grinned. “Long story short, I should probably deliver him to the Rexford eventually. Although… bringing him back to HQ’s not off the table yet. You think Dez would let me keep him?”

“Definitely not.”

Deacon stroked his chin, regarding the robot. “I bet I could work something out. The trick would be getting him to the Church without anybody noticing. This guy wants to be buddies with everyone. Raiders, ferals… let’s just say that the trip out here? Not so easy.”

Outside, somewhere down the street, she could hear the rapport of gunfire. She and Deacon fell silent, trying to judge if trouble was headed their way. There was a pause, and then the muted sound of a grenade detonating, farther away, and she breathed a little easier.

Still, it was an unwelcome reminder of the world she lived in now—where nothing good lasted for long, unless you fought for it tooth and nail.

She caught Deacon by his sleeve as he moved away. “Deacon? I want you to promise me something.”

“Hey,” he said sharply, tugging his arm out of her grasp. “That’s how people start talking when they think they’re gonna die on me. You're not gonna die on me, Wanderer, alright?”

“I just want to make sure that when the shit hits the fan, the kid’s got someone looking out for him. I want you to do your best to get him out safe. Please.”

Deacon paused. “The synth kid, huh?” he said softly.

She could feel him studying her face, and looked away. “Yeah.”

“I…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m shit at keeping promises, you know.”

“You’re the only person I can ask, Deacon. Z1 doesn’t have any people to spare. Neither does Dez. I know the mission has to come first, but you promised me once that you’d get my son out safe. I’m just…asking for this instead.”

Deacon flinched. She knew it wasn’t fair, using that promise against him. But she couldn’t count on anyone at the Institute to look out for the kid. And she wanted make sure that no matter what, he wasn’t alone. She’d do whatever she could to make that happen.          

“Alright. I promise,” Deacon said.

“Thank you,” she said, feeling a little guilty. She hated the way his shoulders sagged. For a moment he looked very, very lonely. Then he bent down to pick the Trilby hat off the floor where it had fallen from her head. When he straightened, he’d collected himself. He put the hat on, then flung an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.

“Hang in there, boss. I know it ain’t easy,” he said.

She slid an arm around his lower back and leaned into him with a slight twinge of sadness. His mask was back on—his calculated, easy swagger returned—and he felt a little more distant.

She looked up at him and searched his face, trying to tell if any of the sadness she’d seen in him after Ticon lingered behind his easy smile. It hadn’t been the first time he’d talked like that—she’d heard him say more than once that that the Railroad’s number would be up one day.

It was clear he didn’t hold out much hope for a happy ending. She wanted badly to make him believe that he had a future—that maybe _they_ had a future. She just wasn’t sure how.

Deacon gave a sharp whistle to the Protectron and called, “Let’s move out, Buddy.”

The three of them made their way out of the bar. The bell over the door chimed merrily as Deacon opened it, and for a moment it felt like they were simply on their way home for the night, the last people out after closing—like they might be back again tomorrow. Deacon didn’t bother locking the door behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for bearing with me for a few weeks’ break! I’m planning to post every other weekend going forward, at least for a little while. Posting every week has been a lot of writing to keep up with. Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos! You all are so great!


	19. Chapter 19

Wanderer lay awake, staring into the darkness above her—and thinking about Deacon. It had been almost two days since their rendezvous at the Prost Bar, and she kept trying to picture what life might be like after they defeated the Institute—what kind of life they might have outside of death’s shadow. But she couldn’t. All she could envision clearly was the long fight ahead. She hoped that wasn’t a bad sign.

She sighed and sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Soft fluorescent lights lit up along the floor the moment her feet touched the ground, illuminating a path out of the bedroom.

She went to the dresser and found her clothes, pulling on the black pants and t-shirt. She preferred the plain combat clothes the Courser’s wore under their armor, even though it made her stand out—the only human wearing black in a sea of white coats and suits. But at least it didn’t feel like she was wearing a costume. On a job like this, feeling like a fraud was the last thing she needed.

Outside in the Institute halls, the lights were dim. No one else was out at this hour except for the Gen 2 patrols. One paused to watch as she passed, its glowing eyes following her. She only relaxed when she heard the _click click click_ of its steps on the tiled floor as it resumed it route.

She walked without paying attention to where she was going, and wasn’t surprised when she arrived outside the door to Shaun’s quarters. For the last day and a half, she’d tried and failed to work up the nerve to talk to him.

She hadn’t quite figured out how to navigate the strangeness of their situation, or all the lost time between them. Not to mention the fact that she was planning to burn everything he cared about to the ground.

Wanderer swallowed and knocked softly on the door. There was no answer. He was probably asleep. She shouldn’t have come. She turned to walk away, and heard him call from behind her, “Come in.”

That stopped her in her tracks, her stomach twisting nervously. _You can’t avoid him forever._ But she badly wanted to walk away, to spend the rest of the night aimlessly roaming the halls or lying tense and restless in her bed.

She heard the _swish_ of the automatic door opening behind her and sighed. She turned back and walked into Shaun’s room.

He was at his computer, resting his head in one hand as he read something on the screen, his brow furrowed slightly. She rarely saw him unguarded like this, and the earnest expression on his face reminded her so much of Nate it made her chest ache.

He glanced over she entered, then sat up straight with a soft, surprised, “Oh.”

“Sorry to bother you.”

“No bother. It’s good to see you, mother.” He’d started calling her that again, especially in front of the others. It still made her wince sometimes, but she didn’t stop him.

“Hey, Shaun. Do you mind if we… just talk for a bit?”

He blinked, surprised—and maybe pleased as well. He was still a difficult read.

“I know it’s late,” she said quickly. “I can come back in the morning.”

“I don’t mind,” he said quickly. He tapped a few keys on the keyboard, and the computer screen went blank. He walked over to a table, and pulled out a chair for her before taking a seat.

She sat. An awkward silence fell between them as she utterly forgot how to hold a normal conversation. Shaun cleared his throat. “Dr. Li says you’ve… taken in interest in the child synth lately.”

“Yes. You could say that.” At first, she’d told herself at first that she’d steer clear of the kid, but she hadn’t been able to. She’d wanted to know what he was like, the boy she’d been chasing across the Commonwealth. He so looked like he could be her son... and she’d wanted so badly to know what Shaun had been like when he was a boy—when he’d still needed a mother.

“Tell me—what do you think of him?” Shaun asked, that curious light coming into his eyes that he had whenever he spoke of his work.

"He’s… he’s a good kid.”

Shaun smiled, a little wistfully. “Is he? Dr. Lee and her team have done remarkable work. He’s progressing above expectation in every way.”

“I spent a lot of time wondering what you’d be like when you were his age,” she said softly.

Shaun glanced quickly up at her, surprised. She wasn’t usually forthcoming about her life before. But he was so still and expectant, she found herself filling the silence without fully intending to.

“You were the most talkative baby, you know. I loved listening to you, especially when you were really little. You sounded like a little dolphin.” She could feel herself smiling fondly, and the fierce sting of tears in her eyes. A panicked voice in her head was chiding her, _stop, stop, stop talking._

Shaun was watching her now with that look—gentle and pitying—that everyone gave her when she talked too much about her missing baby. Like she was some wounded animal they didn’t know how to help. She hated that look. Seeing the same expression on _his_ face felt like a slap. She had to look away.

She’d thought… not that he’d understand, exactly. But that maybe she could mourn with him and not feel so lonely. The grief hadn’t worn smooth in the year and a half since she’d left Vault 111; it still had jagged edges, tearing open fresh wounds when she least expected it.

Her throat was tight, and her eyes burned. She was going to cry in front of him, _dammit_. “I should leave,” she said.

“No, please stay,” Shaun said, and something in his voice sapped her will to go. She couldn’t leave now; she didn’t know if she’d muster the courage to do this again. So she wiped the tears from her eyes and tried to stop the rest from coming.

Shaun said, “You’re still angry with the Institute. Aren’t you?”

She gave a humorless laugh. In the beginning, the anger had been almost as terrible as the sadness. Anger at Kellogg and the scientists for taking Shaun, but also at Nate for failing to stop them—and at herself, for doing nothing. It hadn’t been fair or logical, but it had been all she’d had for a while—until she’d met Preston and Mama Murphy.

Wanderer shuddered. She didn’t like thinking about her first few weeks in the Wasteland. Shaun was watching her. He said carefully, “I realize that your feelings about the Institute must be… complex, even now. But I want you to understand that they are my family. And I hope they’ll be yours, too. It’s… very important to me.”

_This is the part where you tell him what he wants to hear,_ the agent in her whispered. She said, “You don’t have to worry. What the Institute did to me hundreds of years ago wasn’t your fault, or the fault of anyone here. You know I’d do anything for my family.” She looked him in the eyes, but she was thinking of Deacon. And Glory, Tom, and Drummer Boy.

Shaun regarded her for a long moment. He nodded slightly, almost to himself. He stood, walking over to the window that overlooked the Institute’s central hall. “We have an important mission scheduled for tonight. I think you should be there. Tell me, what would you do when someone has stolen from you?”

“I think you know the answer to that question,” she said. He glanced over at her, smiling fondly.

_You shouldn’t trust me,_ she had the crazy urge to tell him. If he didn’t seem to have so much faith in her, maybe she wouldn’t feel like such an asshole for lying to him.

Shaun continued, “The group that calls themselves the Railroad has acquired several synths from the Institute. Synths that have gone missing in recent months.”

Wanderer’s blood turned cold. This is what she’d been dreading—a mission that made her chose outright between the Railroad and the Institute. She wasn’t ready for it so soon. 

“They no doubt mean to “free” these synths in their delusional belief that synths are somehow… sentient beings.” He turned to face her. “You’ve been in contact with the Railroad, so you’re no doubt aware of their… misguided beliefs.”

When he spoke to her like this, as the Director, it was a little easier to think of him as the enemy. She remembered she was walking a thin line. Shaun knew she’d worked with the Railroad, but she wasn’t sure ho _much_ he knew. And she couldn’t afford to give anything away. She said tactfully, “They’re only doing what they think is right. Some people just need something to believe in out there, to keep themselves going.”

Shaun made a disdainful sound. “It is selfish, short-sighted. Usually they are a minor nuisance, but lately they have become more emboldened. I’m afraid we’ve reached the point where a response is necessary.”

He made it seem like the Institute had never retaliated against the Railroad before. He clearly didn’t want her knowing about the massacre at Ticonderoga, or the Switchboard.

“So what do you need me to do?” she asked.

“We have learned the location of these synths, and need to re-acquire them before the Railroad can hide them. You have three hours to prepare. A Courser will be waiting for you near Bunker Hill. You’ll need him. I trust you’ll resolve the situation quickly and quietly.”

“Of course,” she said, already racking her brain for how she’d be able to warn the Railroad before the Courser finished his mission prep and made it to Bunker Hill. If she wasn’t careful, this could easily become another blood bath. “I won’t let you down.”

****

After rushing through her mission prep, Wanderer relayed to the Commonwealth a quarter mile from Bunker Hill. She braced a hand against an alley wall to steady herself. The relays still left her unsteady on her feet. She started walking before her eyes had fully adjusted to the darkness.

She needed to contact the Railroad. _Now._

There were a handful of dead drop locations at key spots in the Commonwealth that she’d been specifically instructed to use. If she were Dez, she’d have those drop boxes monitored to ensure all messages coming out of the Institute were received. There should be a runner around here, somewhere. She just had to find them.

Wanderer stashed her Courser jacket and helmet. She’d retrieve them later—no way was she going to approach a Railroad agent while wearing _that_ —and headed briskly down the street, looking for likely stakeout spots.

Down one alley, there was a young woman with short, messy dark hair who was leaning against the wall, smoking. In the dead of night.         

Wanderer turned down the alley. The young woman froze when she caught sight of her. As Wanderer drew closer, the woman’s hand shifted slowly to the gun at her hip.

“Beat it, lady,” the woman said, her hand closing around the pistol’s grip.

Even without the Courser armor, Wanderer knew she didn’t look trustworthy—she was too clean, too well-dressed. The woman probably thought she was a Gunner.

Wanderer held out her hands to show she wasn’t armed. “Do you have a Geiger counter?” she asked.

“Mine is in the shop,” the agent said. She relaxed her grip on the weapon, but she was still eyeing Wanderer suspiciously. “Who’s asking?”

“Agent Wanderer. I need you to get a message to HQ. Right away.”

The woman scoffed. “Wanderer, huh? Great. Dead drop’s right around the corner.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder and took another pull of her cigarette.

“Listen—what’s your name?”

The agent narrowed her eyes. “Rook,” she said reluctantly.

“Listen, Rook, we don’t have time for a regular drop. You’re gonna have to take the message now, uncoded.”

“Not coded? I can’t take that. It’s not protocol.”

“I just told you—”

“And I’m telling _you_ , I can’t take it. HQ’s been on our asses lately about operational security.”

Wanderer strode forward and took her by the shoulders. Rook started, her Wastelander instincts kicking in. She dropped the cigarette and drew her gun, pressing the barrel into Wanderer’s gut.

Wanderer ignored it. She said, her voice low, “The Institute’s about to hit Bunker Hill. You have to warn HQ _now._ ”

Rook’s eyes went wide. “Oh, shit.”

“Tell them that I need a clear sign before I’m inside if we’re going to try to head them off—”

Rook shoved her away. “What the fuck do you mean, _if?”_

“I mean we only have a few hours to put together a counter op. And they’re sending a Courser in, so I’ll need a kill zone ready.”

“Shit, a Courser?” Rook anxiously ran a hand through her hair.

“You got all that?”

Rook scowled. “Yeah. You want a sign and a kill zone, and maybe to save Bunker Hill. I heard you.”

“Great,” Wanderer said, ignoring Rook’s sarcastic tone. “Thanks, Rook.”

“Sure.” Rook sighed. “Good luck out there, alright? Try not to die.” She jogged past Wanderer to the end of the alley, checked that the coast was clear, then took off at a dead sprint.

She could make it to HQ in under twenty minutes if she kept a good pace and didn’t run into trouble. God, Wanderer hoped she didn’t run into trouble.

Deacon would probably have words for her later for sending that message via runner without even trying to code it. For a man who broke the rules as often as he did, he could be a stickler for operational security. But she didn’t have a lot of options right now.

A small part of her still worried it might be best to pull out all essential personnel from Bunker Hill, and let the Institute hit them. She didn’t see how she was going to salvage her cover otherwise. But she knew what Dez would do. It had only been a few weeks since Ticon fell. The Railroad could bear another disaster.

And she remembered the look on Z1’s face when she’d talked to him about Ponyboy. The determination in his eyes when he’d said, _he has to be the last person they do this to._ If she showed up at the Institute having helped reclaim _four_ synths for the SRB, the Railroad would lose the synth rebellion’s trust for good.

No matter what she did, she was walking the razor’s edge.

Wanderer found her Courser armor and put it back on. She checked the time on her Pip Boy. Ninety minutes before her rendezvous with the Courser.

It was one possibly the longest hour and a half of her life. Her heart was pounding, and she was jittery with adrenaline and fear. There was probably a more fruitful way of spending it than pacing the first floor of an abandoned store, but she was too wound up to do much else.

When she thought she couldn’t put it off any longer, she headed for the rendezvous point. The Courser was waiting for her in an alley on the outskirts of the Hill.

“X4-18,” she said pleasantly.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said, watching her from the shadows as she approached. Was that testiness in his tone, or was she imagining it?

“What’s our situation?” she asked.

“I assume you’ve been briefed. Our targets are inside: four synths under Railroad protection. Majority of the settlement is uninvolved, and are expected to run for cover—”

“Wait, quiet,” she cut him off, holding up a hand. “Do you hear that?” The air was humming, an ever-louder _thmp thmp thmp thmp thmp_ echoing off the buildings. It sounded like…

Wanderer and X4 stepped out of the alley for a clear view. Above them, two Brotherhood vertibirds were closing in on Bunker Hill.

A warning siren started blaring from the settlement.

Well, she’d asked for a clear sign from the Railroad before she moved on the Hill. It looked like this was it.

X4 said, “The situation appears to have escalated. A covert approach is likely impossible.”

Wanderer knew deadpan when she heard it. This guy definitely didn’t like her.

“We move in, secure the synths, and I relay with them back to the Institute, clear?” he said.

She bristled at that. She didn’t take orders from Coursers _._ Except she had to, at least until she’d walked him into the Railroad’s trap.

She _hoped_ they had a trap ready.

“Clear,” she said. “Let’s move.”

Shots rang out nearby. Wanderer took off toward Bunker Hill, keeping low to the ground and close to the buildings. She could hear X4’s soft footfalls as he followed closely behind her. She peered around the corner, toward settlement’s main gate.

It was crawling with Railroad heavies. Bunker Hill was the largest remaining Railroad asset. After Ticon, they must have been set up to defend it as a moment’s notice. And now X4 would mow them all down.

The Courser was beside her, looking toward the main gate and the skirmish that had already broken out there between the Brotherhood and the Railroad.

He said, “The mission parameters just changed. We go in shooting. Requesting backup relay, now.”

Four synths flashed into the alley next to them. Two of the Brotherhood soldiers nearby turned toward them at the sound of the relay.

_Well, here goes nothing._

She brought up her Institute rifle and started firing. She still had Deliverer on her, but she could do more damage with the laser rifle at long range, especially against the Brotherhood.

X4 took off sprinting toward the gate. Wanderer bit back a curse and followed, the synth squad flanking her.

“Coursers on the field! Fall back!” one of the Railroad agents on the wall shouted.

Wanderer gave a sharp whistle to get X4’s attention. “There’s a side gate! We can breach it easier.” Plus, Railroad fighters weren’t guarding that gate.

X4 nodded, and signaled for the synths to follow. Wanderer struggled to keep pace with him, moving fast through the dark and broken streets to circle the Hill. She knew the side doors were double-barred from the inside. They should slow him down.

As they reached the wall, X4 raised a foot, and kicked down the door in one try. It splintered inward, wood and metal shrapnel bursting into Bunker Hill.

“Holy shit,” she said.

X4 strode through the shattered door without pausing. He raised his rifle, firing on stragglers who hadn’t managed to run clear before the door had burst open.

Wanderer followed him, shooting wide of anyone who looked like they were Railroad or Bunker Hill personnel, aiming true on Brotherhood troops, because the Courser would notice if all her shots went wide. And she was taking heavy fire, too. She couldn’t pull all her punches.  

Wherever she and X4 went, the Railroad fell back—self-preservation, or were the luring them into the kill zone she’d asked for? She hoped Deacon was the one running this show, because he was the only one she trusted to pull off a sting operation during a skirmish between the Railroad, Institute, _and_ the Brotherhood.

Some of their fighters were wearing Railroad browncoats, but most wore standard leather or combat armor. Taken together, they looked like caravan guards, or mercs, or one of a dozen local militias for hire Bunker Hill might have called on to help defend the settlement. Most importantly, they wouldn’t look like an organized third force in the battle.

As soon as he’d cleared the area, X4 glanced at a device on his wrist. “They’re this way,” he said. Then he flicked on his stealth field and disappeared.

“X4!” she called. No response. The bastard was trying to lose her.

Luckily, by now she was familiar with all the Railroad bolt-holes in Bunker Hill. She could guess where they’d hidden the synths—and hopefully set up an ambush for the Courser.

She activated her own stealth boy and sprinted to the market, pulled open the cellar door behind the medic counter, and dropped down. She slung the laser rifle over her shoulder and drew Deliverer, stalking carefully along the corridor.

X4 moved fast—he’d already cleared the route. She stepped gingerly around the bodies of the fallen Brotherhood troops, keeping her eyes ahead.

She paused as the sounds of a skirmish grew louder. Railroad agents were bunkered down behind sandbags, two of them manning machine guns. They were taking heavy fire from the Brotherhood. Only four agents were still standing, and one of the machine guns was smoking and clearly broken. She drew a deep breath, and entered the fray.

As soon as Wanderer entered the field, the Railroad stopped firing. She put herself between the Brotherhood and Railroad agents, taking up position next to X4. Two knights were still standing, and a Paladin in Power Armor.

It was one thing to see the aftermath of a Courser’s rampage. It was another to fight back-to-back with one in the eye of the storm. He’d had maybe a couple minutes’ head start on her, and already he’d dropped almost a dozen fighters down here.

A laser round glanced off her armor, knocking her off balance and sending her shot wide. She resisted the urge to run for cover. She hated fighting on open ground like this, but she had to stick close to X4, and this was the way Coursers fought: head-on, fearless, and terrifyingly confident.

The Paladin started priming his gattling, laser the high whine of the weapon filling the room. She dove to the ground. X4 took the laser beam full in the chest, and didn’t even lose his footing. His feet churned up a cloud of dirt as the force of the blast sent him skidding back five feet.

The Paladin lowered his weapon, staring in shock as X4 straightened, the front of his armor smoking. In one smooth movement he raised his own weapon, and started firing back.

The Institute rifle ate through the Paladin’s helmet in two shots. The laser cannon clattered to the ground as his grip went slack. He toppled forward, knees buckling. As he fell, the knights scrambled back a few paces, visibly shaken. Wanderer got to her feet slowly, letting the Courser pick them off.

The field went quiet when the last Brotherhood fighter had fallen. The Railroad was holding fire, waiting for her cue. X4 was the last outsider still standing. She needed to finish him.

She tried to steady her uneven breathing as she raised her gun. She lined up her shot—and hesitated, remembering the Courser she’d killed at Ticon. And the sinking, twisting sensation of firing on an unresisting target.

It was only for a second, but it was long enough for X4 to round on her and meet her eyes. His gaze dropped to the raised pistol in her hand.

She had no time to regroup before he took hold of her wrist in a grip strong enough to snap bone and _twisted_ until she dropped Deliverer.

The cry of pain and terror he tore from her belonged to a younger, less experienced fighter, but she couldn’t stop it. She didn’t have a plan B. Dirty tricks were the only way to end a Courser. That, or a _lot_ of lead. The Railroad fighters wouldn’t be able to stop him with just one working machine gun.

X4 took hold of her uniform in both fists, lifted her in the air, and _threw_ her as if she weighed nothing. Even with the helmet, the force of her head smacking against the concrete wall left her dizzy. Bright shards of pain tore through her torso. 

She slouched to the ground, her world swimming, unable to breathe through the pain in her chest.

She could just make out the Courser’s black books in front of her. Then a vice-like grip closed around her throat and lifted her up until her feet barely brushed the ground.

He was just toying with her now. She kicked wildly, trying to find footing. Her vision was going black and fuzzy around the edges. _No, no, no. It can’t end like this._ She dug her nails in his arm, desperate for air.

Then suddenly her feet were solidly on the ground, the Courser’s grip softening enough that she was able to take a rasping breath. Her vision cleared.

The Courser was watching, his eyes burning with rage and confusion, his jaw clenched tightly. But he wasn’t making any move to finish her off. What the hell was going on?

She’d worry about it later. The Wasteland had taught her to seize an opening whenever she found it. She grabbed the combat knife from her belt, plunged it his throat, and jerked the blade free.

X4 dropped her, clutching at his neck, eyes wide. He fell forward, and she didn’t have the strength to keep him from crushing her against the wall and taking her down with him. Her injured ribs screamed with pain, making her head swim. 

Mercifully, someone pulled the heavy body off her. Then Deacon knelt beside her, brushing the hair from her face. Of course it was Deacon; he was always turning up when she needed him most. She couldn’t hold back the relieved sob that escaped her as he eased her up gently, propping against the wall.

He was saying something, his hands cupping her face, but she couldn’t make out his words through the blood drumming loudly in her ears. It hurt to breathe. Black spots dotted her vision—more and more each time she blinked—until Deacon faded from view entirely and there was only darkness.


	20. Chapter 20

_Don’t panic, don’t panic,_ Deacon told himself as Wanderer’s eyes drifted closed. That was rule number one on any job, but right now he was having trouble following it. He needed to know she was all right.

He took off Wanderer’s helmet and cradled her face. “You still with me, partner?” He patted her cheek, trying not to be too frantic.

She jolted upright, then clutched at her side, wincing. “How long was I out?” she gasped.

A strange little laugh escaped him, half relief and half hysteria. “Only for a few seconds. Jeez, keep it together,” he said—though more to himself than to her.

She glowered at him.

“Atta girl,” Deacon said, grinning. The wild thud of his heart began to slow, and the nauseous feeling in his stomach subsided. “Alright, let’s get you checked out, boss.” He gently probed her side, and she yelped.

“Careful! I think I’ve broken some ribs. At least—ah!—at least a lot.”

“At least a lot, huh? Thanks, doctor.”

“It feels like _all of them,_ okay?” she said through gritted teeth. “Just quit poking me and give me a stimpack.”

Deacon chuckled, grateful she was talking and alert, and did as she asked. She sighed as the rush of drugs dulled her pain and the serum went to work mending her body. She’d been clutching his shirt tightly, and her grip relaxed as the stimpack kicked in.

“Good work, partner. I knew you’d find us,” he said. “Sorry things got so crazy up top, but we needed to buy some time. We were flying by the seat of our pants on this one.”

“You tipped off the Brotherhood?” she asked.

“Didn’t seem right that they were the only ones without an invite. Besides, it’s not a real party unless someone’s bringing laser canons.”

She laughed softly and winced, holding a hand to her ribs.

“You okay, Wanderer?”

“Mmhm. I will be.”

“Courser really did a number on you, huh? For a second, I thought—” He broke off and swallowed hard, trying not to think about what it had been like to see her at the Courser’s mercy. He cleared his throat. “Not that I’m complaining, but… why didn’t he finish you off?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. But I think something similar happened with the Courser back at Ticon. It’s almost like… they can’t kill me.” She paused. “I think it’s Shaun’s doing.”

“Why would he do that?”

She shrugged, and avoided meeting his eye. “Maybe he thinks Ayo’s going to try something funny in the field. The guy doesn’t trust me at all. Or maybe he knew I’d likely cross paths with a Courser while I was looking for him, and he wanted to make sure they wouldn’t kill me.”

Deacon wasn’t sure what to make of that. If it was true, it seemed like a big risk for Father to take, especially before he’d even _met_ Wanderer. And it meant he’d had plans for her from the very beginning. “Well, whatever’s going on, we’ll find out. Sounds like something’s rotten in the state of Denmark.”

She cocked her head at him. “Deacon, have you… read Shakespeare?”

“Yeah, some.”

“Huh. I didn’t think people still did that. Come to think of it, you know a _lot_ about pre-war stuff. Why is that?”

Deacon took a seat next to her, leaning back against the wall. “What can I say? I’m a Renaissance man.” He nudged her. “I quote old books and stuff all the _time,_ Wanderer. You seriously never noticed?”

“No, I did. I guess I just didn’t think much about it before.” She shrugged.

He smiled fondly at her, shaking his head. “Some spy you turned out to be.”

“Don’t make me kick you. My ribs are still sore."

The color was coming back into her face, now that she wasn’t faint from the pain. Her hair was damp with sweat from the exertion of battle, and she still seemed a little shaken—but at least she was _safe._ For now. It stirred a strange mix of gratefulness and fear in his stomach, having her close but knowing she’d just be walking right back into danger.

Before she did, he wanted her to know how he felt, but… it still somehow felt like bad luck to say it—like a curse. As if admitting it out loud might provoke the Universe to deliver another great big _fuck you_ to the both of them. Neither he nor Wanderer seemed particularly favored by Fortune. And more bad luck was the last thing Wanderer needed right now.

“Deacon, what? You’re staring,” she said.

He looked away quickly. “You remember how I spent some time in Capital Wasteland?”

“Yeah. You talk about it all the damn time.”

Deacon smiled. “Well, there’s these guys up there called the Enclave, kinda like the Brotherhood’s more militant cousin. We found they had pre-war roots, and it got us thinking: with how well-hidden and equipped the Institute was, they were probably pre war, too. ”

She nodded slowly, looking slightly thrown off by his change in subject.

“So for a while, it was my job to dig up all the pre-war intel I could find. I spent a lot of time by myself in old labs and libraries, anything that might have a clue about where the Institute was, how it got started.”

“They must have scrubbed the surface decades ago. Left no trace.”

“Yeah, looks that way. But we had to try. I’d always had an affinity for pre-war stuff, but that was depressing work. The people from before, their stories… they never ended well.”

“Hm,” she said softly, and he knew she was thinking about herself, and the people from her old life.

Making her sad was the _last_ thing he was trying to do, so he pressed on. “Anyway, working with people suits me better. But for a time I got pretty immersed in the Old World. And I learned that I liked to read.” He shrugged.

She was quiet, waiting. When he didn’t say anything else, she said, “That’s it? I thought you were going somewhere with that story.”

“You asked about Shakespeare. I just was trying to tell you something about my life. Sheesh, tough crowd.”

“Oh. You were?” she said, giving him a quizzical look. “That’s… new.”

He looked down at his hands. He’d always been careful to keep personal details locked down tight. He couldn’t afford to let them slip on a job, so he’d got in the practice of never sharing even the smallest true thing about himself, unless he knew exactly what he was going to get out of it. But things had changed between him and Wanderer; It was time to break some old habits.

He said, “You know, you hardly ever talk about you life before? What your family was like, or your job. Your favorite things to do. Nothing—not unless you have to.”

She swallowed. “It’s… difficult to talk about them.”

“Yeah, I get that. And if you need to take your time, I don’t want to rush you. But… I don’t think that’s the only reason.”

Her quick glance off to the side told him he was right. Everyone in the Railroad was skittish about sharing personal stuff with him. They were never sure how much they could believe whatever he said in return. It kept them at a distance, where everyone was better off.

But he didn’t want that with Wanderer. It had been a long while since he’d tried to really sell her one of his bullshit stories, just to keep her on her toes. It was a little embarrassing, really, looking back on some of the stuff he’d said when she’d been a fresh recruit. God, how had she _ever_ started falling for him?

“Look, a few weeks ago I told you that I trusted you. You probably didn’t buy it; I’m not even sure _I_ bought it, at the time, but… I guess I’m just trying to say that I _do_ trust you; I’d be an idiot not to. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t believe me right now—”

“I believe you,” she said, without hesitating. That had him grinning like a fool. She smiled back, her gaze soft. That warm, hopeful feeling fluttered back to life in him—the crazy dream that _maybe_ things would turn out alright in the end. When she looked at him like that, it was hard not to.

“Deacon, we’re all clear up top,” an agent said, joining them by the wall. “You okay, to move, Wanderer?”

Wanderer’s smile faded. “Yeah. Just give me a minute.”

The agent nodded and strode away. Wanderer looked to him. “What am I going to tell them, Deacon?”

She wasn’t even trying to conceal the concern on her face. She didn’t think the Institute would welcome her back after this.

“Just don’t oversell it. The Brotherhood’s more equipped than anyone to crash an Institute op. It’s plausible”

“But not likely.”

“It only has to _seem_ more likely than you being a double agent. You can do this. They trust you.” He just hoped that trust would survive this disaster.

She was shaking her head. “Even if they buy it this time, it’s only a matter of time before something like this happens again.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Wanderer sighed, leaning her head against the wall and closing her eyes for a moment. “Well. No point in putting it off, I guess.” She braced an arm against the wall and got to her feet.

Deacon stood, too, keeping a close eye on her. “Don’t worry, boss. I’ll be right behind you.”

****

Deacon shadowed Wanderer through the ruins of the old CIT campus buildings, staying just close enough to intervene if there was trouble. With a steady supply of stealth boys and feet light as a cat’s, a man could make his way just about anywhere.

Wanderer had a few Gen 1 escorts with her, but—aside from a handful of synth troops that had relayed into the field late in the battle—she was the only Institute ally to walk out of Bunker Hill.

Dez might be right that the Institute would buy whatever story Wanderer fed them, but Deacon wasn’t about to leave _that_ to chance. He had to see with his own eyes that she wasn’t walking into the slaughter.

He kept at a safe distance and followed her into the rotunda building, then up to the roof (it just _had_ to be the roof, didn’t it?). When they reached the rooftop, the synths relayed back to the Institute in two rapid flashes of light, leaving Wanderer on her own.

There was a man waiting for her on the roof. He was wearing one of those old-fashioned sweater vests and a pristine lab coat. He had his arms folded neatly behind his back, and was looking out over the Wasteland like he was king of the Commonwealth.

So this was _Father_. The reason they were all gathered here tonight on this _way_ too windy rooftop. He looked… like a really clean, really old man. With an unnaturally tidy beard.

Deacon slipped into the shadows of an old rooftop heating unit just in case he had to swap in a new stealth boy. He was well-hidden but close enough to catch their conversation without having to strain to hear.

Wanderer walked up beside the old man. “Shaun?”

He didn’t look at her or respond. He just watched the retreating vertibirds over Bunker Hill as the night breeze rustled his clothes. It was a nearly full moon tonight, and this section of the city was well lit by a smattering of settlements and camps—human, super mutant, and raider alike. Bunker Hill shone in the far distance. The Commonwealth lay before them in all its broken glory.

Father said, “You know, in all my years I’ve never set foot outside the Institute. Not once, since the day they brought me there. I’ve never had a reason. But now… this just confirms the truth I’ve always known. The Commonwealth is dead. There’s no future here. The only hope for humanity lies below.”

Gee, this was going to be fun; listening to him monologue about how the Commonwealth wasn’t worth a damn. The _gall—_ he could stand there with his perfect hair and spotless white coat and act like all the people he’d kidnapped and experimented on and murdered didn’t mean a thing.

Wanderer said, “It’s bad out here, most of the time, but… not all bad. People manage.”

Father scoffed. “Perhaps. But at a cost too great to be worth it. Standing here, I’m reminded how fortunate I was to be spared a life in this… wasteland.”

He spat out the last word, and Wanderer flinched away from him. Deacon caught her sharp, pained intake of breath. Little warning bells went off in his head. He should have seen it sooner: a part of her didn’t want Shaun as her enemy. A part of her still wanted to love him.

Oh, Wanderer. This was going to end messy for her.

Father had turned to face her now. He said gently, “I know that to you I was kidnapped from that vault. But in truth, the Institute rescued me. Both of us, really.” His voice was more personal now, not pensive and distant as it had been at first

Wanderer nodded like she’d expected him to say as much. “Kellogg called me ‘the backup,’” she said bitingly.

Father made a soft, sad sound. “Did he? Well, he was correct. I was the perfect candidate. An infant with uncorrupted DNA. But if something were to go wrong… if I died… Well, the Institute realized that a contingency plan was prudent. So you were kept alive and safe within the vault.

“I’ll admit, when I had you released from Vault 111, I had no expectations that you’d survive out here, in all this. To not only do so, but manage to find me… to infiltrate the Institute itself… extraordinary.”

“Why let me out now, after all this time?” Wanderer asked, searching his face, her eyes hungry, like she’d waited half a lifetime to ask the question. Deacon felt that uneasy stirring in his gut again. He’d sent her in before she was ready. But how could his training have prepared her for this? She was going to destroy her son—and if she wasn’t careful, she’d break with him.

Father still hadn’t answered her. After a few moments, he said, “That’s… well, that’s hard to explain. Certainly it was no longer necessary to keep you suspended… I… well I suppose I wanted to see what would happen. An experiment, of sorts.”

He was keeping something back, Deacon just wasn’t sure what. Wanderer was looking down at the Commonwealth, jaw clenched, her breathing unsteady. He wished he knew what she was thinking. He had a pretty good guess: After everything she’d suffered after climbing out of Vault 111, this is the answer she gets from him—it was an _experiment._

Father had let her wake up _alone_ to the hell of her broken family _,_ watched her nearly get herself killed a dozen times—for the sake of her little boy. And he’d known _the whole fucking time_ that she’d never find that boy.

Deacon hated him for the raw, tender look he’d put on Wanderer’s face, and the brittle quality in her voice, like she was about to shatter to pieces in front of him. _Wanderer_ , who had faced down mobsters and raider bosses and super mutants without flinching.

“I had no idea what kind of person you were, you see. Would the Commonwealth corrupt you, as it has everything else? Would you even survive? Perhaps most curious to me… would you, after all this time, attempt to find me? And now I know the answer.”

“Well… here I am. Was it worth it?” Wanderer said, a hard, bitter edge in her voice. God, it hurt, watching this, realizing the full extent of the mess he’d gotten her into.

“I believe so,” Father said.

Wanderer took a long breath, a wry, wounded smile flitting over her face. Deacon sat seething in the darkness. At least most Commonwealth scumbags _knew_ they were scum. This guy talked like he thought he was Jesus fucking Christ.

“Soon I hope… I hope you’ll understand. Everything I’ve done has been for the future.” He turned to look out over the horizon, his tone of voice changing again, this time to Disappointed Commander. “A future which I hope is not in jeopardy after recent events. Bunker Hill did not go well for us. Would you care to explain what happened?”

“They were waiting for us.” The contrition in Wanderer’s voice _was_ put on, but she wore it well, looked Father right in the eye.

“You can imagine I find that very difficult to believe, given all the intelligence we had leading up to this indicated we’d taken _them_ by surprise. And the Brotherhood of Steel… they had no way of knowing what was going on.”

Wanderer took Deacon’s advice, and didn’t insist the Brotherhood had uncovered the Institute’s plans. If he really trusted Wanderer, Father would come to the conclusion himself. If he didn’t, it was best to found out right now. Slowly, Deacon reached for his rifle, held it at the ready, just in case.

Father was shaking his head. “This was such a simple task, I just don’t understand. I know you’re capable of handling yourself. How can I expect you to represent the Institute if this sort of thing continues?”

Deacon perked up at that. Father wasn’t even listening to her excuses, not really. He didn’t seem to care so much _why_ the op had gone belly up, only that it had. Wanderer might really be in the clear.

“It won’t happen again,” Wanderer said.

Father sighed. “I appreciate that. But this… it makes things difficult. Bunker Hill was meant to cement your place as a valuable asset to the Institute. It will now only raise suspicion.

“I will refrain from sharing the outcome with the Directorate for the moment. Things are already in motion that this would only derail. Speaking of which… it’s time for you to become more involved in the future of the Institute.”

Maybe Wanderer’s vulnerability cut both ways. Father was upset at Wanderer for the way Bunker Hill went down, sure, but he was _way_ more concerned with whatever plans he had laid back at the Institute. Plans that had Wanderer as a key player, and that he had no intention of altering, even after this.

_I’ve got you on the run now, you bastards._

For _once_ in his life, the Railroad had something close to the upper hand. His crazy-as-hell infiltration plan was actually _working._

Father turned to face Wanderer. “I’d like you to join me inside. The Directorate is meeting… and you should be there. I’ll be waiting,” he said. Then he disappeared in a harsh flare of light, the stormy _crack_ of the relay echoing in his wake.

Wanderer looked so _sad_ standing there alone—wounded and fragile and unlike the woman he knew, Deacon was afraid to say anything at first. He was embarrassed that he’d seen her like this, vulnerable and adrift. Maybe, for right now, he’d play it like everything was normal.

He stood from his crouch, only now realizing how much his knees were killing him. “Well. That was _very_ interesting,” he said loudly.

Wanderer jumped a foot in the air. Deacon chuckled as he walked up behind her, still cloaked in a stealth boy field.

“Sorry, but that never gets old,” he said.

She turned to glare at him, and through sheer luck or some uncanny sixth sense, glowered right into his eyes. Then she turned away, looking back out over the Commonwealth, the spark of anger burning out. She said softly, “Hey, Deacon. I suppose you heard everything.”

“Yeah. So. What’s your take on all that?”

She sighed heavily. “Honestly? I think they’re taking me in for interrogation the moment I set foot in the Institute. There’s no way Shaun doesn’t suspect me after that shit show, no matter what he just said.”

She was selling herself short. Not many people could have made themselves indispensable to the Institute in just a few months, but she’d done it. Father didn’t just want her to be more involved in the Institute’s future; for some reason, he _needed_ her to be.

He _tut tutted_ , clicking his tongue against his teeth. “ _Such_ a pessimist.”

“Well, what did _you_ think?”

“I think he just told you what he’s going to do. And as long as he keeps Bunker Hill from the others, your cover is safe.”

“But the moment he tells them, Ayo will have my head. He’s already suspicious of me.”

“Maybe. But I think Father will protect you if it comes to that. You’re a part of his end game. And whatever it is, it sounds like he’s about to reveal it. You better get in there.”

Wanderer took a deep breath. “Okay. Any advice?”

“Be careful. That guy _reeks_ of desperation. And desperate people are dangerous. Reckless.”

“That could work in our favor,” she said.

“Yeah, I’m counting on it. But it could also blow up in our faces. So be _careful_.”

“Always. But, Deacon, after Bunker Hill, I can’t afford the smallest slip.”

“So, just tell me what you need.”

She didn’t hesitate. “I need two more weeks in deep cover—It’s possible I won’t be able to make it to the surface, so… no check-ins.”

“Ah.” That was gonna be one hell of a hard sell with Dez. Luckily, this was Deacon’s op now, and he _technically_ didn’t have to clear his every call with her. Still, two weeks was a long damn time to go dark.

“I might not even need the whole time,” she said.

“Shit, Wanderer.” He rubbed a hand over his head. “Well, what’s the status of the rebellion?”

“They need all the time they can get. They’re still working on making weapons. And they need to work on recruiting. They’re numbers aren’t great.”

Deacon didn’t even want to think about all the terrible shit that could go wrong in two weeks. But she was right—throwing Bunker Hill for the Railroad had been a huge risk. If all she needed was some breathing space to run damage control, he should give it to her.

“Okay, boss. Two weeks. You got it,” he said. He wasn’t sure if the sick feeling in his stomach was worry for her, or his gut telling him that this was a bad, bad call.

Wanderer didn’t answer. She was still looking out over the roof. She made no indication that she’d heard.

“Wanderer? I said you got it.”

“I know, I… don’t want to go in just yet,” she said, her voice hoarse. She was making quick swipes at her cheeks now, and he realized she was crying.

“Hey,” he said softly, taking her by the elbow and pulling her into deeper shadows with him as his stealth boy field timed out. “What is it?”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t have to do with the mission.”

Deacon highly doubted that. The look on her face when she’d been talking with Father… this mission and her hurt were hopelessly tangled up together.

“You can tell me anyway. If you want,” he said.

She stopped trying hide her tears and met is gaze. His heart twisted in his chest. The look on her face—hurt and afraid and uncertain—made him feel stupid for hiding behind his sunglasses. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to take them off and let her see how scared he was, seeing her shaken like this.

She wiped her eyes, but the tears didn’t stop coming. “I failed my family, Deacon.”

She turned away from him, the cold, bitter edge coming back into her voice. “When I first found out Shaun might be alive, I thought I could make it right, somehow. I thought… I could still be a good mother. But it’s too late for that. I missed my chance.” She took a sharp breath and pressed a hand to her mouth.

For all his skill with words, Deacon had never been able to make himself good at comforting people. Not when it came to this kind of soul-breaking grief. He usually just got stiff and awkward and useless and left as soon as possible.

But he didn’t want to do that now.

He drew her close in a mechanical-feeling hug. She didn’t seem to notice how stiff he was. She wrapped her arms around his back, grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt, and let out a sob so loud and raw it made him flinch.

“Oh no,” he said. He actually _said it_ _out loud._ God, why was he so bad at this? Luckily, she didn’t seem to have heard him. So he just held her tighter, rubbing a hand up and down her back, because that seemed like the only thing to do—and because he sure as hell wasn’t going to open his mouth again.

He stood like that, holding her, until she stopped shaking with tears. Eventually her sobs gave way to quick, unsteady breaths. Then she quieted, breathing evenly, pressed against his chest and clinging to him tightly. She was still crying; he could feel her hot tears wetting his shirt. He let her take her time.

When she was done, she stepped away from him, took a few deep, shuddering breaths, and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “I should go back in. I’ve waited too long already,” she said, her voice wavering.

Deacon shook his head. “No, not unless you’re ready. Wait as long as you want. Even if they notice, it’s better than going in half cocked.”

“I _am_ ready. I just… needed a minute.”

But he couldn’t let her go back in yet. He wanted to say something first to take some of the heaviness out of her shoulders. He just didn’t have the faintest idea what to say. All he could do was give it his best shot and hope he didn’t fuck it up too badly.

“Wanderer?”

“Hm?”

“You were a good mom. I hope that doesn’t make you feel worse, I just… You did good. The world is just shit.”

A ghost of a smile flicked over her face. “It doesn’t make me feel worse.”

“Well, that’s something.”

“It’s something. Thanks, Deacon.”

Before he could say anything else, she relayed back to the Institute, so sudden it made him jump back. The brightness of it left him seeing spots.

The roof of CIT wasn’t the safest place to loiter, but Deacon didn’t have it in him to head back to HQ just yet. So he sat cross-legged on the roof, popped another stealth boy, and thought about what an idiot he was for agreeing to go another two weeks alone in the Institute.


	21. Chapter 21

Deacon had his hands full tracking Wanderer's movements for the past week. She’d been a busy woman lately, running all sorts of interesting errands for their Institute pals. He'd promised her two weeks in deep cover, and he'd been keeping his distance as they'd agreed. But that didn't mean he didn't have his eyes and ears wide open for news of the Institute and their new favorite agent.

Deacon was enjoying the challenge, actually. It wasn’t easy keeping up with Wanderer when she could teleport wherever the hell she wanted to in the ’Wealth. But he was doing it. Barely.

Last he’d heard of her, she and a handful of Institute operatives had been making trouble for the Brotherhood of Steel. There’d been a skirmish in the Financial District. Deacon picked up his notes and headed to HQ's situation room.

“Hey, P.A.M, run these coordinates for me, will you?” He checked his notes for the location where the fighting had been. “42.3471 degrees North, 71.0825 degrees West.”

P.A.M. didn’t respond. She just stood there whirring quietly at him. He wasn’t sure if she was searching her archives, or if she was giving him attitude. Neither possibility was off the table. She actually had an “Ignoring Agent Deacon” subroutine, he’d been flattered to learn. “Um. Please?”

“Location: Mass Fusion Building.”

 _Mass Fusion._ That sounded familiar. “What intel do we have on the place?”

“Primary pre-war function: nuclear research.”

Deacon stopped dead. “What?”

No reason to panic just yet. They could be after nuclear power, not weapons. With how much juice the Institute probably needed to create synths and teleport their agents around the Commonwealth, that would make sense. _Or, they could be after both._

P.A.M. said, “No active Railroad operations have been registered in this area. Do you have an update, Agent Deacon?”

“Hm? Nope. Nothing interesting going on there, P.A.M.”

“There is a 3 in 4 probability that you are withholding information.”

“That’s my lie ratio these days? Man, my batting average is really slipping.”

“Deacon!”

Deacon jumped at Dez’s shout. She did _not_ sound happy. He left the situation room quickly, heading into HQ’s main chamber.

“What’s happening at the Institute?” Dez demanded as soon as she caught sight of him.

“Uh...” By the tone of her voice, something _big_ was definitely happening at the Institute. But Deacon didn’t know _what_ because Wanderer hadn’t checked in for over a week and he was still a half step behind her.

He didn’t think Dez could know about whatever nuclear shenanigans the Institute was involved in. He really hoped not. That was news he needed to break in the right time and place—preferably with Wanderer’s inside scoop. So what _else_ was the Institute up to?

He glanced over Dez’s shoulder. Drummer Boy was hunched over his radio, headphones pressed to his ears, watching Dez nervously. Deacon remembered suddenly a report a few days ago from one of his DC tourists: someone had broken into Travis’s place—nothing stolen. And something clicked into place.

“They’re… broadcasting? To the Commonwealth.” That was a first. And it could only mean very, very bad things.

Dez was giving him a hard look. “When was Wanderer’s last check in?”

Shit. If he told Dez she hadn’t checked in since Bunker Hill, she was going to freak out. Technically, Wanderer was supposed to check in every three days. But something was clearly up, and it was too risky to pretend like Wanderer had been checking in on a normal schedule. Dez would expect more info that he had. So he went for a happy medium. “Five days ago.”

Dez's mouth fell open. “She _missed_ her last check in?”

“No, no. I _told_ her to stay under longer to earn back their trust. Bunker Hill put her in a tight spot.”

Dez closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, taking a deep breath. “Check-ins aren’t optional, Deacon. We need them to know if an agent has been compromised.”

Deacon cocked his head. “She hasn’t been compromised.”

“How sure of that are you?”

There was something in her tone that put him on edge, and had dread settling deep in his gut. He walked past her toward Drummer Boy, who scrambled out of his seat to let Deacon listen to the radio. Deacon put the headphones on, afraid of what was waiting for him.

And—oh _fuck—_ that was Wanderer’s voice. Speaking for _the Institute._

Dez had followed and was leaning over him now, one hand braced on the table. It took every ounce of Deacon’s self control not to _shush_ her, because she was talking over the broadcast, making it impossible for him to hear what Wanderer was _saying._

“The only people who know agent Wanderer is in deep cover at the Institute are in this room, Deacon. This broadcast has been airing on repeat for ten minutes, every hour for the past two hours. It’s only a matter of time before someone at one of our outposts recognizes her. So _what the hell is she doing?”_

“Jesus, Dez, just let me listen to this, okay?” Deacon snapped.

Her eyebrows shot up, her voice rising to a shout when she said, “You didn’t _know_ about it?”

Deacon set the headphones down.

“No, I didn’t _know_ about it, okay? You want me to tell you how many caravaners picked their noses at Bunker Hill yesterday? I can do that. But I have exactly _one_ set of eyes in the Institute, so my vision there is a little limited right now. I can’t know _everything_ all the time, Dez.” And, okay, Deacon was well and truly frustrated now, letting his mouth run far ahead of his brain—and his brain was pretty damn quick.

Dez drew herself upright, crossing her arms and fixing him in a piercing stare. She gestured to the radio with one hand, then tucked it back. “By all means, then. Take a listen."

Slowly, Deacon held the headphones to his ears again. The sound of Wanderer’s voice made his chest ache to be near her. But then that ache turned to icy dread—because this didn’t sound like the woman he knew.

It was Wanderer, but as he’d never heard her sound before: cold and hard, with a touch of _benign dictator_ thrown in. The not- _quite-_ right quality her voice might have if the Institute had found her out, and made a synth replacement of her.

No. _No._ He couldn’t think like that. It couldn’t be true.

Deacon held his breath and listened to her words as the broadcast repeated.

 _For years now, you have suspected that the Institute still exists, that we are among you. It is true, but it is not the whole truth._  
  
_We are the future._  
  
_Our superior technology represents the future of the Commonwealth. Today, we activate our nuclear reactor, ensuring that we will persevere long after the world above ground has ceased to exist. Ensuring that mankind has a future._  
  
_We have no desire to interfere in the unimportant details of your daily lives. We simply ask that you do not interfere with Institute operations. To do so would result in dire consequences._  
  
_You may rest easy. Know that the future is in safe hands, that mankind will thrive under our guidance._

The broadcast switched off, and _I Don’t Want to Set the World on Fire_ started up as the regular Diamond City Radio program returned. Deacon set the headphones down on the table with a soft _click._

Dez was right, Wanderer was flirting with disaster. If someone from the Railroad recognized her, it could blow the whole operation. Why had she agreed to be the voice of the Institute, and why the _hell_ had they chosen her for the job in the first place?

He thought of Father on that rooftop, saying  _it's time for you to be_ _more involved in the future of the Institute,_ and a chill worked its way down his spine. No way she'd turned. No _way_. So either the Institute had burned her cover, or something was forcing her to take crazy risks. 

HQ had gone dead quiet. A few agents were still trying to affect the pretense of working, but most were openly staring at him. They’d all heard it already, and they were waiting for what he would say next.

For once, Deacon was the last guy in the loop. It felt like _shit—_ how did people live like this?

 _Doesn't matter, just put on your brave face and calm everyone down before this powder keg explodes._ “Well, that was interesting,” he said.

“Interesting?” Dez repeated, incredulous.

“Yeah, the Institute’s got a quality PR department. That was some top notch propaganda.”

Drummer Boy said, “Was it a code, maybe? Meant for you? I didn’t hear any of our usual ciphers, but…”

God, Deacon _wished_ there had been some secret message for him in there, but he hadn’t heard anything either, and his gut was saying the broadcast was exactly what it had seemed to be.

He wanted to tell a lie and chase the terror from all their faces. But for once he had no fucking clue what was really going on, and any lie he told about it had the potential to put them all in greater danger.

So he didn’t answer Drummer Boy.

“I need a report on my desk in three hours that _explains_ this.” Dez gestured to the radio.

Wanderer wasn’t set to check in for another three days. _Shitshitshitshitshit._

Dez took a step closer to him and said, voice low, “And if you _don_ ’t have an explanation, then I’ll need your recommendation for our next course of action, because if our agent _is_ compromised, I’m not sitting around with my head in the sand while the Coursers come for us.”

“Dez, if she were compromised, don’t you think we’d all be dead by now?” Deacon said, voice just as quiet.

“Maybe. Maybe it’s only a matter of time. Wanderer’s tough, but… the Institute’s broken our agents before.”

Deacon clenched his fists tight. “You’ll get your report. No problem."

Dez turned away from him and walked off. Agents started to drift back to work, the air still tense with fear. Glory strode up to him.

“Deacon, did they get her?”

“No."

“Right. But you don’t _know_ that, because she hasn’t checked in for almost a week.”

“They didn’t get her, Glory, trust me,” he said shortly. He needed to be alone right now, and figure out what the hell his report for Dez was going to say.

Glory looked at him a long moment, eyes hard, trying to judge if she was likely to get anything more out of him. Eventually she scoffed and shook her head. “Trust you? Yeah, sure,” she said, and walked away.

Deacon sighed and slumped back in his chair. Drummer Boy was watching him carefully. He pulled a chair up next to Deacon and sat down. “This is bad news, huh?” he said.

“It’s not good news, pal… but I doubt it’s as bad as everyone seems to think.”

“But, Deacon, what if Wanderer—”

“Let me worry about that, Drummer. I’ll get to the bottom of this, okay?”

“Well. Alright,” he said, picking up the radio receiver and getting back to work.

God, Deacon loved Drummer Boy and his singular ability to mind his own goddamn business. Drummer kicked up a fuss every once in a while about wanting to work in the field, but at the end of the day, he was _really_ good at the work he did, and he expected others to be just as competent in theirs. When an agent told him they’d do a job, he took it on faith that they would.

From anyone else, Deacon would have called that gullibility. But with Drummer… it just made him want to do his best not to let the kid down. He knew Drummer Boy worked as hard as Deacon did to keep their people from harm.

Deacon closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind for at least a few minutes before he had to figure out what he was going to do about Dez’s report. But he couldn’t quiet his mind. Instead, all he could think was _please please please let her be okay, please, please, please, please._

He knew begging wouldn’t do any good. Either the Institute had burned Wanderer’s cover and he’d already lost her, or she was still in the game, and nothing Deacon _felt_ while sitting on his ass at HQ was going to change that. One way or the other, he’d have to make a call: try to buy Wanderer more time, or pull the plug on the whole op in case she really was gone. And he couldn’t do that.

Well... this wouldn’t be the first time he’d bet everything on Wanderer. He had to make sure she succeeded—it was the Railroad’s last hope. So he’d buy her time, however much she needed.

He just _really_ hoped he was making the right call. Because this time, if he was wrong, he could be taking the entire Railroad down with him.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should forewarn you: in this chapter the “Minor Character Death” tag comes into play… brace yourselves.

Wanderer could do without any more surprises for the rest of her life.

She was lying on her soft, clean Institute bed, eyes closed, trying to get a few minutes of sleep before somebody  _else_ came looking for her. She’d been running jobs for the Institute nonstop since Bunker Hill, and in that short time she'd had one nasty revelation after another.

When Shaun had handed her the script for the Institute’s inaugural broadcast, she’d been so burnt out from the last week that she hadn’t even been able to sneak in some message that Shaun wouldn’t notice, but would keep everyone at HQ from panicking.

Deacon was going to give her an earful about that when she saw him again.

Not to mention, she was now the new heir apparent for the Director’s seat. _That_ hadn’t exactly gone over well with the synth rebellion. Or the scientists. There had already been a stand off with Max Loken and Lawrence Higgs over her being unfit to hold the position. She’d been able to talk them down, but she wasn’t sure the next time would go so well. This whole operation was beginning to fray at the seams.

 _And Shaun was dying._ Wanderer pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes. The news shouldn’t have hit her so hard; she’d known for a long time how things were going to end between the Institute and the Railroad, one way or another. And since her reunion with Shaun, she’d been trying to steel herself for the worst.

Just when she thought she was beginning to cope with the painful, snarled mess of her feelings about Shaun, she got tangled up again, worse than before. She needed to think about something else. After the emotional and physical exertion of the past week, she was nearly spent.

So, yeah, no surprises for a good long while would be nice.

She rolled over onto her side and wondered—not for the first time—what Nate would be doing right now, were he in her shoes. Would he have been faring any better? Sometimes, she wanted to talk to him about all this so badly that it made her chest hurt.

Their life together had been so different from the one she lived now, and the Wasteland had changed her so much... She didn’t know any more if he still would have loved the woman she’d become.

Wanderer had promised herself a long time ago that she’d stop living in the past—torturing herself over _what_ _might have been_. But the last few days had worn down all her defenses against the tides of grief and regret that had once threatened to swallow her up.

She closed her eyes and relaxed her clenched jaw, loosened the muscles in her shoulders, and let out a long breath, trying to still her racing thoughts. She just needed to calm her mind and body long enough to let exhaustion take her. Then she could _sleep,_ for a few hours, at least.

She heard the _swish_ of the door to her apartment opening, and urgent footfalls as someone stepped into the room.

She groaned. “Not. _Now_.”

“Marlowe,” a voice said, low and tense with concern.

She bolted upright. That was Z1’s voice—and he wouldn’t risk approaching her in her rooms—especially during the day—unless something was very, _very_ wrong.

Wanderer lept from her bed and hurried to the sitting room. “What’s wrong?”

Z1 was already on his way to the bedroom, and they nearly collided. He caught her by the shoulders. “You must act now. The Brotherhood of Steel has discovered the location of the Railroad.”

A wave of terror washed over her. “What happened?”

“A friend who works in the SRB overheard something. She smuggled out a message. We can’t learn anything more right now. Even delivering those few words put her in great peril.”

“ _Shit._ Oh… shit.” She backed away from him and ran her hands through her hair, trying to order her thoughts. She had to warn the Railroad. _Immediately._ “I’ll go now. But the timing might raise suspicion. Everyone’s had their eye on me lately.”

She ducked back into her room and started stripping off her Institute jumpsuit. She pulled a set of Wastelander clothes and frantically pulled them on.

“How long will you be gone?” Z1 called from the next room.

“Plan for twenty four hours, at least. Maybe more.”

“My friends and I will cover for you.”

She finished changing and strode back into the main room. She clasped Z1’s arm. “Thanks. Watch your back in here.”

“Always.” His grip on her arm tightened. “But we need to make our move soon. Tell your people we are ready to fight.”

“The next time I set foot in this place will be my last,” she promised.

He nodded. “Go, now. And don’t fail.”

“I never do.” She grinned, hoping she looked more confident than she felt. This was going to be a long night—way longer than she’d bargained for.

She triggered the relay on her Pip Boy, and was gone.

****

Teleporting with Institute tech wasn’t nearly as jarring as the Railroad’s Molecular Relay had been, but it was still unpleasant. It left her wobbly and startled on the other side—like the feeling she’d had after getting shocked by a faulty wall socket.

Wanderer staggered, arms flailing, until she found her footing. She leaned against a wall for a few moments to catch her breath.

She _really_ hoped Deacon was working from HQ today, because without him around to talk the others down, the Railroad would probably shoot her on sight. They couldn’t risk a breach right now, and tensions must be running high after her surprise broadcast.

It was another risky roll of the dice. One of these days, this sort of gamble would get her killed.

Just hopefully not tonight.

Wanderer flicked on the signal jammer Deacon had given her and ran like hell toward HQ.

It was dark in the tunnels, but she didn’t risk a light. She made it past the Railroad dial—to the place where she’d first met Dez, Glory, Drummer, and Deacon—before someone tackled her, knocking her to the ground. Her head smacked against concrete. The air crushed out of her lungs in a _whoosh_ as they landed hard on top of her.

The blow disoriented her, and for a minute she couldn’t place the voices in the chamber around her.

“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!”

“She’s wearing her Pip Boy, they can _track her_.”

“Disarm her, _now_.”

Once Wanderer could focus again, she found Drummer Boy was straddling her, pistol drawn and pointed at her face. He took one hand from the grip to reach down and pull Deliverer from her belt, handing it back to Dez without once taking his eyes off her.

“Don’t move, Wanderer, please. I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.

“That might not even _be_ Wanderer,” Dez said, taking Deliverer from him.

Drummer Boy’s grip on the gun tightened, and he swallowed hard. _Shit._ Wanderer was still gasping like a fish out of water, and Drummer was twitchy as hell. One good scare, and the kid was going to pull the trigger.

She managed to force out, “I’m not… gonna move.”

Drummer Boy gave her a small, frightened grin, like he really hoped that was true.

Glory was nearby, minigun in hand, watching her warily. Dez was standing next to Glory, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

Deacon was standing between the two of them and Wanderer, his hands raised like he was trying to placate a wild animal. “Okay, super. Now that we’ve given her a good old fashioned Railroad welcome party, let’s—”

“Get her out of here. If she resists, shoot her,” Dez interrupted him, speaking to Glory.

Deacon sidestepped, blocking Glory’s path. “Wait.”

“Outta my way,” Glory said.

“Dez, have them stand down, just give me a minute to explain.”

“Move aside, Deacon. That’s an order.”

“But this isn’t as bad as it looks—”

“We don’t have time for your bullshit,” Glory said, shoving Deacon hard in the chest and forcing him to step aside.

“She isn’t putting us in any danger; I gave her a signal jammer,” Deacon said loudly, rubbing his chest where Glory had hit him.

Glory paused. Dez whirled on him, her voice angry. “Don’t lie to me, Deacon, not now; this is all our heads.”

“I’m not lying, Dez. _Please_ believe me.”

Dez blinked, surprised. Deacon _never_ begged. Whether he was selling you a lie or the truth, it was always _Honest, I promise, cross my heart and hope to die._ But not now. She hesitated, and he took the opening.

“I took one of the Courser signal jammers Tom's been working on. I told her to use it if she absolutely needed to. I said it was from you.”

Dez stared at him in disbelief. “You did _what?_ ”

Wanderer had her breath back, and they’d finally calmed down just enough that she thought she could start yelling without getting a face full of lead. “The Brotherhood is on it’s way here! Z1’s contact says they know where HQ is. We need to move.”

There was a split second of horrified silence—then Dez took control. “I need intel. Is that possible?”

Drummer lowered the gun. “Two of our spotters haven’t checked in. They’re only a few minutes late, but, that’s unusual. And…” he cast a quick glance at Deacon, “there’s been a lot of traffic in and out of HQ lately, planning for the assault.”

Deacon said, “We picked up increased Brotherhood activity in the area 20 minutes ago. Their coms chatter said they were headed to siege a mutie stronghold, but that could be a cover. Yeah, Dez, it’s possible.”

“It’s happening again,” Drummer said anxiously, looking up at Deacon.

“Just keep your head down, buddy. You’ll be okay.” Deacon pulled him to his feet. Wanderer sat up slowly, still feeling slightly winded from the run and getting tackled to the ground.

Dez was already giving orders. “Wanderer, you take HQ. Glory, reinforce the tunnels. Deacon—we’ll talk later.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

Glory looked over at Wanderer. “Shit, it’s just the two of us isn’t it? We’re the only heavies left.”

Deacon put his hands on his hips. “Hey, what am I, eye candy?”

“I can fight,” Drummer Boy insisted.

Glory shifted her grip on her minigun. “That’s real cute, but maybe you two should just try to stay low. We’re going into a real firefight here.”

Dez said firmly, “Everyone who can hold a gun is fighting. I’m sending reinforcements to help you hold the catacombs.”

“We’re gonna lose people that way.”

“If the Brotherhood’s really coming for us, we’re losing people either way. I’m not letting you fight alone.”

Glory made a frustrated sound, but didn’t protest further.

“Wanderer, we need to get in there. Our defenses won’t hold for long once the Brotherhood shows up,” Dez said over her shoulder as she turned and jogged back to HQ.

Wanderer was slow getting to her feet. Deacon caught her by the arm and helped her up, pulling her along after Dez. As she fell into step with him, he said, “I liked your PSA about the great and powerful Institute. You should be a DJ.”

“I’m sorry about that. I know everyone here was probably scared shitless.”

“Nah. We all thought it was a _hilarious_ practical joke. We’re a pretty laid back bunch, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“We’ve got Brotherhood incoming! Assume defensive positions!” Dez bellowed as they entered headquarters.

Everyone froze, staring at Dez for only a few panicked moments before bursting into action. Papers scattered as agents dropped their work. They’d run drills for scenarios like this after the Switchboard. They knew what to do.

Tom approached, foisting a large, homemade rifle into Wanderer’s hands. “Hey. You’re gonna need this.”

“What… is it?”

“Railway rifle. It shoots spikes. Packs a _big_ punch, too,” Tom said.

Wanderer examined the bizarre weapon in her hands, a modded rifle stock with some metal monstrosity attached to it the vaguely resembled a gun. It didn’t _look_   reliable, but at this point she knew better than to doubt Tom’s handiwork. “Very, uh, creative,” she said, hefting the front-heavy weapon.

Tom beamed.

A muted explosion sounded from behind the escape tunnels. Tom ducked, covering his head reflexively. Several agents cried out.

“Tom, what’s our status?” Dez shouted as a second, louder explosion echoed in the escape tunnel.

Tom rushed over to his terminal, checking the feed for the back room cameras. “Under siege, Dez. Their breaking through any second.”

A loud detonation and the shrieking of shattered metal and brick came from the escape tunnel.

Tom was leaning over the terminal, typing frantically. “Damn, I wish I had more traps back there. I think I can collapse the back tunnel before they reach us, though. Just—just give me a few minutes.”

Shouts and footsteps—and the steady _thud, thud_ of Power Armor—was getting closer. Agents were positioning themselves defensively around the tunnel entrance. Wanderer's heart clenched. Christ, they looked like a pathetic bunch, with their scavenged armor and ramshackle weapons. These were the Railroad desk jockeys—even the ones bearing Tinker Tom's weapons had only limited experience using them. The Brotherhood were the Commonwealth's most elite fighters. _Goddamnit_.

Drummer Boy picked up Tom’s terminal and set it on the floor, ignoring his protests. He overturned the desk for better cover crouched behind it, pistol at the ready. He looked up at them “We’re gonna have to hold them off. I’ll watch his back; you guys take point.”

“Be careful,” Deacon said

An agent shouted, “Take cover—they’re through!”

Wanderer grabbed Dez by the jacket and pulled her behind another desk as the Brotherhood rounded the corner, guns blazing. "Here!" Dez pressed a grenade into her hand. Wanderer pulled the pin, and tossed it toward the tunnel. The front guard shouted a warning and the troops pulled back, dodging the worst of the blast. But it was enough to scatter their line, and throw them off guard.

Wanderer propped up her rifle, using the desk to steady her arm, and risked shooting off a few rounds of return fire. A few of her shots went wide as she got accustomed to Tom’s new weapon. He was right: this gun packed a _punch_. Enough to pierce Power Armor. The Paladin staggered as a spike hit him in the shoulder, dropping his weapon.

Wanderer reloaded and kept shooting. If the Brotherhood breached the room, the Railroad was done for.

Dez grabbed her by the shirt collar and pulled her back behind cover as the Brotherhood returned fire, their laser weapons tearing through the ancient desk. Fusion rounds singed her jacket, but—miraculously—the desk held together enough to protect them from serious harm.

“Reloading!” Wanderer yelled, hoping someone would hear and draw the Brotherhood’s fire.

“Collapse the tunnel, Tinker!” Deacon shouted from where he’d taken cover behind the cistern.

“Yeah, yeah. I got it!”

There was a staccato beeping from the tunnel, like a mine being triggered, and a _whump_ of energy as Tom’s trap detonated, taking down the ceiling on top of the bulk of the Brotherhood force, still bottlenecked at the back entrance.

Rubble toppled into the chamber, sending up a cloud of cement dust and debris. Chunks of masonry clattered against the desk she and Dez were crouched behind. Wanderer clapped her hands over her ringing ears until the noise faded to a muffled buzz.

As the rubble settled, she clasped Dez’s shoulder.

“You okay?”

“Fine. Check on the others,” Dez shouted back.

There was an unsettling hush in the wake of the firefight, interrupted only by the sound of settling debris and the faint moans of the wounded. They’d put down the Brotherhood infiltration before it fully got off the ground, but even a few minutes squaring off against the Brotherhood could mean heavy losses. It was hard to tell how much damage had been done, but one thing was certain: HQ was utterly wrecked.

“Deacon!” she yelled, stumbling to her feet. A white haze of smoke and dust from the explosion still hung over the room, and she could barely see anything beyond what was right in front of her.

“Here!” Deacon staggered over to her, grabbing her unsteadily by the arms. She wasn’t sure if he was trying to keep from falling over, or making sure she was okay. She clung tightly to him. “Are you hit?”

“No. A little scraped up, but it’s nothing a stimpack won’t fix. You?” He found his balance, and took her face in his hands, tilting his head down to look at her over the rims of his sunglasses, fear in his eyes.

“I’m fine.”

He closed his eyes and pulled her into a tight hug, releasing a heavy sigh of relief. “Take it easy. Remember to breathe,” he said softly into her ear.

It wasn’t until then that she noticed how hitched and unsteady her breathing was. She forced long, even breaths, and relaxed into his arms.

“Hey, hey! We need help over here!”

Wanderer tensed immediately. She pulled away from Deacon, looking for Tom. The dust had begun to settle, and she spotted him kneeling on the ground behind one of the desks. She bolted to him, her heart pounding. Deacon followed close behind.

Tom was crouched nervously over Drummer Boy, who was lying sprawled on the ground, his chest rising and falling in a frantic rhythm.

“Drummer?” Deacon said, kneeling next to them. The palpable fear in his voice made her flinch.

“It doesn’t hurt so bad,” Drummer Boy was saying. “It’s not that bad, right?”

She knelt, too, trying to judge the extent of his injuries. The front of his jacket was hopelessly blackened and melted around the wound. Laser rounds were designed to tear trough combat armor; his ballistic jacket hadn't diffused any of the blow. She’d seen her share of energy weapon injuries, and Drummer’s didn’t look good.

“Right, Wanderer?” Drummer pressed.

She glanced at Tom.

“It’s not made to take energy damage. It’s ballistic weave!” Tom said defensively, his voice strained.

“That’s okay. It’s okay, you’re gonna be okay, Drummer,” she said, touching his shoulder. She was repeating herself, unable to keep the rising panic at bay, but couldn’t help it—she didn’t know how to treat an injury this severe. A stimpack and some basic field aid couldn’t undo whatever damage the Brotherhood had caused—she knew that much.

Wanderer stood and grabbed a nearby agent by the shirt as he hurried past. “Get Carrington,” she hissed.

He looked at her, startled. “Doc’s outta commission.”

“What?”

“He was hurt in the fight. He’ll be okay, but… a lot of our people are down. We’re not in good shape, Wanderer. Just do what you can.”

She let the agent go and backed away. She dropped to her knees beside Deacon and Drummer Boy, a hard knot of panic coiling inside her. Carrington was the only surgeon they had. And she didn’t know what to _do_.

“What’s going on? Did we win, at least?” Drummer said, reaching out. Deacon took his hand. Drummer had never looked quite so young before, his face pale with fear.

“Yeah, we won,” Deacon said, his voice hoarse.

Wanderer gave him a stimpack. She didn’t know if it would do any good, but she couldn’t do _nothing._ Drummer’s eyes glazed as the drugs dulled the pain. He met her gaze for the first time, and her fear must have been written all over her face, because a spark of understanding flashed in his eyes.

“Ah, shit. I’m sorry, I just… I didn’t want to lose anybody else.”

She didn’t know what to say. She thought frantically, trying to come up with something, _anything_ that might put him at ease. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Drummer.”

“Yeah? Feels like… that coulda gone better.” He gave a thin, short laugh.

“Well…” She faltered, wishing Deacon or Tom would take over. But they both seemed a little shell-shocked. “Coulda gone worse.”

Drummer nodded, but he didn’t seem to fully hear her. He was clammy and pale, his eyes drifting closed as the last of his adrenaline fizzled out. When he spoke, his words were slow and slurred, “Deacon, I’m sorry…”

“Quit apologizing. You’re gonna be fine,” Deacon said. He looked at her. “Where’s _Carrington?_ ”

“He can’t come.”

Deacon froze, his mouth falling open as he realized just how bad the situation was. Drummer murmured something unintelligible. His breath was coming in shallow, irregular gasps.

Tom was watching them anxiously. “He’s not gonna die, is he? Deacon?”

Deacon didn’t answer. Tom sat back heavily against a nearby desk.

That familiar sensation of her world slipping sideways. She was in the place she never wanted to be again—watching the life leave someone she cared about, and all she could do was sit there and let it happen. She’d been willing to sacrifice so much to keep them all safe, it felt like that should count for _something_. But in the end, there was only so much one very tired person could do against the endless disaster that was the Wasteland. Drummer’s breathing grew fainter, until the slight rise and fall of his chest stilled.

“No, no, no, no, no. This can’t be happening,” Tom muttered, glancing from Deacon to her. Wanderer couldn’t meet his eyes. She set her jaw; she couldn’t let herself cry now. If she did, she wouldn’t be able to keep it together, and there was still too much work to be done.

Deacon clutched the collar of Drummer Boy’s shirt. He said softly, “I told him he’d be okay.” He sat back, leaning against the desk and running both hands over his head.

Wanderer looked up to find Dez standing over to them. “Deacon, Wanderer, Tom. I need you to come with me.”

Tom looked up at her sharply. “But…”

“Now _._ I know it’s hard. But we have to keep moving if we’re going to survive the night.”

Tom didn’t move. His gaze dropped to Drummer Boy. Dez took him by the arm and patiently pulled him to his feet.

Wanderer was watching her partner. “Deacon…?”

He was leaning against the desk, his knees drawn up, running his hands over his face. He looked up at her and gave her a startling, crooked smile. “Yeah, boss?”

He sounded so easygoing—so _normal_ —that it sent chills down her spine. She wanted to tell him he didn’t have to put on a brave face right now, with her. But… maybe he did. Maybe he was doing all he could not to let the truth catch up with him. She had her own method of denial, after all. She could still feel the urgent drumbeat of battle in her blood: _Keep moving, keep fighting, keep breathing, don’t look back_. “We should go.”

“Sure thing.”

She followed Deacon to the catacombs. HQ had a not-quite-real quality to it that she couldn’t pin down. Everything felt too loud, or too bright, or was moving too fast. Like she existed a few minutes behind the world around her. Nothing came into focus until they met up with Glory and the others in the catacombs entrance.

Glory looked a little worse for wear, but she was still standing. “We kept them back, Dez.” She looked from Wanderer to Deacon. “How’d you guys do?”

Wanderer, Tom, and Deacon all looked away. Dez said, “HQ is secure, but we lost people. Drummer Boy… is dead.”

Glory fell back a step. “Shit, Drummer?”

Deacon said, “Different players, but it’s the Switchboard all over again. We’ve been made, Dez. Shouldn't we move house? More Brotherhood could already be on the way.”

“They could be, but I don’t think so. And we _can’t_ move now. It would take weeks to establish a new command center. We can’t wait that long to make our move on the Institute.”

The three of them were quiet. The Railroad was in no shape to launch a true assault on anyone, let alone the Institute. But they didn’t have a choice.

Dez seemed to sense the mood. “They hit us hard, but we’re still standing. I wish…” She faltered, and for a second, her mask slipped. “No time for that, though. The Brotherhood underestimated us badly. Their next attack will be far, far worse. So we do the unexpected.

We eliminate the Brotherhood as a threat. Now. And the key to that is destroying the Prydwyn. Fortunately, we’ve got a contingency plan. Tom, we’re activating operation Red Glare.”

Tom’s head whipped up. “What? But Red Glare required a Brotherhood vertibird.”

“Then the Wanderer will get you one.”

“Count on me,” she said, wondering how in the _hell_ she was going to do that. Dez must have a plan. But if she didn’t, then Deacon would.

“I’m going, too.” Glory folded her arms over her chest and raised her chin, ready for Dez to object.

Dez only nodded. “We need you both more than ever. All our best fighters are being called in to take the Cambridge Police station.”

“The police station, huh? That’s sure to make them angry,” Deacon said.

“Spotters report they almost always have a vertibird parked on its roof. Take it. And Tom, you’re going with them.”

Tom gave a high, nervous laugh. “Me? In the field?”

“No one else can fly the damned thing.”

Tom blinked, realizing she was serious. He cast a panicked look between Dez and Deacon. “No, Dez, I—I don’t want to leave. Not when…” he gestured helplessly back toward HQ.

Dez’s voice softened. “We’ll take care of Drummer, I promise. But we need you in the field; you’re the only one who can do this.”

“Yeah.” Tom scratched the back of his head, shifting his headgear. “Okay, Dez.”

Deacon clapped him on the back. “Don't worry, we’ll take care of you.”

“I know you will,” Tom said softly. “It's not me I’m worried about.”

Deacon’s expression didn’t change, but Wanderer could sense the tension in him, the chill in his veins. He really was hanging on by a thread. Maybe they all were.

“We’re losing time,” Glory said. “Let’s go kick their asses. This is the last time the Brotherhood fucks with us.”

Thank God for Glory. If there’s one thing they needed to keep them sane right now, it was stone-cold pragmatism. Wanderer shouldered her rifle. “I’m with you.”

“I coulda gone for a bit more rhetorical flair, since this is probably our last stand and all. But that works, I guess.” Deacon shrugged.

“Good luck, all of you. Come back safe,” Dez said.

So this was really happening. They were going to take on the Brotherhood of Steel, then the Institute—the two greatest powers in the Commonwealth. HQ was crippled, their head courier was dead, and their enemies were going in for the kill—the Railroad was truly on its last legs. But they were about to lay siege to the Brotherhood’s most fortified outpost all the same, their only advantages a hunger for revenge and the element of surprise.

They were in way over their heads. But there was now turning back now.


	23. Chapter 23

The night was quiet. Outside the Church, the cool air felt refreshing after being in the cramped, gun smoke-filled catacombs.    
  
Wanderer leaned back against the wall and glanced around at the others to gauge how they were holding up. Tom was sitting on the steps, while Deacon paced back and forth outside the church door.  
  
“Dammnit, I told Dez too much traffic,” Deacon muttered. He sighed heavily. “Doesn’t matter now, I guess.”  
  
Tom was resting his head in his hands. “Wish I push more traps in that tunnel.”  
  
They looked so harried and uncertain, Wanderer had the urge to pull all of them close, to tell them to stay safe. She didn’t want to lose anyone else. And for the first time since she’d joined the Railroad, she felt only terror for the road ahead.  
  
The confidence that had propelled this far was fast fizzling out. She was starting to realize just how fucked the Railroad was unless their luck drastically changed.  
  
They were so few, and so tired, and they had so _many_ enemies.  
      
She glanced over at Glory. “We’re in a bad spot, aren’t we?”    
  
Glory shrugged. “It always feels like the end, each time we get hit bad. But we’ve pulled through.”  
  
“The Railroad can only take so many its before it breaks.”  
  
“So what are you gonna do about it? Give up?”  
  
“No.” Wanderer took a deep breath. She needed to get a grip; Glory was right, this line of thinking wouldn’t help anyone.  
  
“Good. Now let’s get moving. We don’t have a lot of time to waste if we’re gonna take the Brotherhood by surprise.” Glory shifted her Railway rifle and started down the steps.    
  
Wanderer caught Deacon’s arm and force him to stop pacing. “Hey, are you gonna be okay?”  
  
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said automatically.  
  
“You don’t have to lie, Deacon.”  
  
He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s a bad night, Wanderer, but I’ll pull through. How are you holding up?”  
  
“I’m ready to do whatever the Railroad needs.”  
  
He gave her a small smile. “That’s my girl.”  
  
He sounded tired. The quip had none of his usual energy, but it still sent a jolt of happiness through her. The spark died quickly, but it had helped.  
  
An explosion echoed in the distance, and Tom leapt to his feet, clutching the stair rail. He let out a tense sigh. “Man, how do you guys live up here?”    
  
“You get used to it… kinda.” Deacon gave Tom a quick pat on the shoulder as he passed him on the stairs and followed Glory into the night.  
  
Tom stood and hurried after him. “I mean, there’s a million ways we could be monitored right now. By the Brotherhood, or, _you know_.”  
  
“Take it easy, Tom.”  
  
“Riiiiiiight, the whole ‘ breathing in and out,’ okay.”  
  
“Good.” Deacon slung an arm around Tom’s shoulders. “Now give me the mission details.”  
  
Tom briefed them on Red Glare, only half-watching where he was going. He was too busy glancing over his shoulder at every sound. Deacon kept him on course and steadied him when he stumbled over loose rubble in the road.  
  
Wanderer kept pace with Glory, walking ahead of the boys and making sure their path was clear. After several silent minutes, Glory said quietly, “I didn’t get the chance to check out HQ. How bad was it?”  
  
Wanderer shook her head. “We’re gonna have to move, as soon as we’re able. The escape tunnel’s wrecked.”  
  
“And… the casualties?”  
  
Wanderer ignored the knife-twist sensation in her stomach. “Hard to say how many, but there were a lot wounded. And we lost a few besides… besides Drummer.”  
  
Glory nodded, glaring at the dark shape of the Prywdyn in the distant sky.  
  
Wandered followed her gaze. She had to make sure the mission was a success tonight. If Z1 hadn’t warned her about the attack… it would have been a massacre—she’d been so close to losing everyone. There had been too many close calls lately.  
  
“Hey, are you two even listening?” Deacon called.  
  
Glory said over her shoulder, “I already know exactly what I plan to do soon as I get a shot at those assholes.”  
  
Deacon sighed. “You know, it wouldn’t kill you to pay attention to a full briefing. I know it sounds crazy, but it could actually save your life.”  
  
She smirked as Wanderer. “Guess I’ll just have to take my chances.”  
  
“Sure, don’t mind me. I’m just here to crack jokes and look pretty.”  
  
“Look, if you think the Brotherhood’s gonna throw us any curveballs, I’m all ears. Otherwise, I know how to handle myself just fine.”  
  
Deacon fell into a sullen silence. The two of them butted heads even in the best of circumstances—and tonight was especially trying.  
  
They slowed their pace as they neared the police station, and Deacon took point. “There,” he said, pointing to a lit gas lantern on the street in front of an old bus stop. An agent in Railroad armor was waiting for them in the shadows.  
  
“What’s the status here?” Glory asked him once she’d given the Railroad countersign.    
  
“Station’s quiet, for now. They don’t know what happened at the Church yet. The rest of our people are nearby, prepared move on our signal.”  
  
Deacon turned to Wanderer. “You ready, partner?”  
  
“You know I am.” Composure in the midst of a crisis was a hard-won skill she’d learned fighting first with the Minutemen, and then the Railroad. She knew how to clear her mind for the fight and let fear and resolve sharpen her focus.  
  
Deacon tucked his hands in his pockets and grinned at her. “See you on the other side, then.”  
  
“Where are _you_ going?” Glory asked.  
  
“To wreak some havoc. Direct confrontation isn’t exactly my forte.”  
  
“ _Wait_ ,” hissed the agent that had been waiting for them, but Deacon was already popping a stealth boy, and disappeared into the shadows. This was how they worked best—him in the shadows, her with a gun in her hands, both of them ready for anything.  
  
The agent stared after Deacon, as if he couldn’t believe he’d really left them. “No offense, Wanderer, but how do stand working with that guy?”  
  
“He’s a good partner,” she said. The agent made an unconvinced sound.  
  
“He’s not gonna blow our surprise attack, is he?”  
  
“Not a chance.”  
  
Glory said, “We keep going as planned. Deacon’s always like that. Not exactly a team player.” She gave Wanderer a keen look. “Except with you.”  
  
Wanderer felt a deep flush creep over over face. Damnit, why was it so easy to bluff the Institute, but so difficult to keep a poker face with her friends? She hoped the darkness was enough to hide her blush.  
  
The sly smirk Glory gave her told her otherwise.  
  
She adjusted her grip on her rifle, cheeks still burning. “So are we doing this, or what?”

****

They took the police station in under an hour. The Brotherhood wasn’t prepared for a coordinated strike against them, and the Railroad were experts at using chaos and confusion to their advantage—the outpost wasn’t prepared for an enemy like them.  
  
Wanderer and Glory combed through the aftermath, making sure the place was clear while the other agents took up positions outside.  
  
It was starting to feel like a real war, now. If Red Glare went well tonight, there wouldn’t be another battle with the Brotherhood, but the final confrontation with the Institute was right around the corner. This kind of work was a far cry from the field work she was used to.  
  
Even when their jobs got messy, she and Deacon hadn’t left so many bodies as this.  
  
Wanderer paused over the body of Scribe Haylen. She’d met her once before, months ago when she’d come here working a case with Valentine. The look of confused recognition on Haylen’s face after Wanderer had put two railroad spikes into her gut flashing in her mind… that wouldn’t be easy to forget.  
  
“Wanderer, you okay?” Glory’s voice pulled her from her thoughts.  
  
“Yeah, just… drifting a little. It’s been a long night.”  
  
“Night’s not over yet.”  
  
She gave a dry laugh. “I know it.”  
  
“Alright, pals. Time to find out if a handful of lowly mortals can take out the almighty Brotherhood. Ready to give it a shot?” Deacon came striding over to them in full B.O.S gear.  
  
Wanderer did a double take “What— Deacon?”  
  
“All that combat armor’s not so easy to put on yourself,” Glory said, raising an eyebrow at him.  
  
“Guys. Disguises are kinda my thing. Remember?”  
  
“Everyone’s gotta be good at something, I guess. You two head on up, I’m doing one more sweep down here.”  
  
Deacon took Wanderer by the arm, “Let’s go get Tom.”  
  
They left Glory and started heading up the stairs to the roof. Deacon stopped her on a landing on the stairwell.  
  
“First things first. I picked up some Brotherhood goodies for you. Merry Christmas.” He handed her a rucksack with an initiate jumpsuit and Brotherhood gear. “If we look, walk, and—if worse comes to worse—talk like an asshole with a superiority complex, we’ll be fine. And even if we don’t, hey, if it only buys you a little time that’s better than nothing.”  
  
His voice faltered slightly, a flash of uncertainty that reminded her just how risky this mission was going to be. The closer they got to the Prydwyn, the more desperate this gamble seemed.  
  
Her heart rate began to pick up again—anticipation, and something else, stirred up by Deacon’s closeness and the raw hint of fear in his voice. If things went south on the Prydwyn, this could be the last moment they had alone together. She bent over and started unlacing her boots.  
  
“So you’re doing this right here, huh? You want me to turn around, or…”  
  
She straightened and started unzipping her jacket, looking right at him, going slow enough that he’d know she was teasing him. “I’m not shy,” she said, letting the jacket slide over her shoulders. Deacon stilled.  
  
As she grabbed her shirt, lifting it swiftly over her head, he made a hoarse sound and turned around hastily. “Just, uh… let me know when you’re done.”  
  
“I don’t mind if you watch.” Wanderer grinned, unable to resist prodding him. No one else was able to fluster him like this. And she had to admit, it was fun. She stripped off her pants and flung them over his shoulder.  
  
“Easy, tiger. We’ve still got a job to do.”  
  
His words were even, but she was close enough to him that she could see he was red up to the tips of his ears.  
  
“Suit yourself.” She took a step closer and said softly into his ear, “Maybe I’ll let you take it off me later.”  
  
He inhaled sharply. “You’re killing me, babe.”  
  
She knew this was a dangerous line to walk right before a high-stakes mission. But she still felt a pang of regret as she zipped up her suit. “Alright, you can relax. I’m done.”  
  
He turned back to her. “You’re trouble, Wanderer. Suicide missions make you horny or something?”  
  
“Maybe it’s just you.” She shoved his chest playfully. He captured her hand there, and leaned in to kiss her on the lips.  
  
She gasped, caught off guard. Then she relaxed into his caress as he pulled her closer. His lips warm and rough against hers. Just this brief taste of him was enough to leave her breathless.  
  
Then he pulled away, and she couldn’t stop herself from leaning  after  him. This could be the last time. She knew Deacon felt it, too. But neither of them wanted to say it out loud and make their fears more tangible than they already were.  
  
She tugged her hand out from under his. “Looks like I’m not the only one who’s trouble, huh?”  
  
“Wouldn’t have it any other way. Keeps things interesting.”  
  
The high-pitched whine of the vertibird’s propellers building speed on the roof outside was getting louder now, filling the stairwell.  
      
“We’d better get up there. Take this.” Deacon placed a helmet on her head and fastened the chinstrap. He gave the helmet a hardy pat. “Can you hear me?” he asked, his voice coming through the headset coms.  
  
“Roger, Roger.”  
  
“Roger, _Deacon_ ,” he corrected her. “You look adorable in that helmet, boss.”  
  
“I’m a terrifying mutant-fighting machine, wastelander, and don’t you forget it,” she said in her best B.O.S. impersonation.    
  
Deacon turned and began walking up the stairs, calling over his shoulder, “Not bad. But this is an officer’s uniform. So maybe try sucking up to me instead.”  
  
“Alright. Your ass looks great in that jumpsuit, _officer_.”  
  
He laughed at that— _genuinely_ laughed. God, it had been a while since she’d heard that sound.  
  
She was smiling to herself as they exited the stairwell onto the rooftop. Her persistent, heavy dread began to dissolve, replaced by the buzz of anticipation. It was the best way to begin a tricky job; with confidence and excitement—and a healthy does of fear.  
  
“We’re in business over here!” Tom’s voice came in over the coms as they approached the vertibird. “We got ourselves some wheels! Or wings. Or whatever this is.”  
  
Deacon climbed onto the vertibird and held out a hand to her.  As they situated themselves inside, Tom continued, “Here’s the deal: after flight prep we take the vertibird up to the Prydwyn and dock. From the inside the blimp’s vulnerable. To keep that baby afloat its got massive gasbags full of hy-dro-gen.”  
  
“And they’ll just let us land?”  
  
Deacon said, “The Brotherhood is nothing if not arrogant. They’d never dream in a million years that an ex-farmer and a scavver could fly one of their birds.”  
  
“And Deacon says he can talk his way past air traffic control. I ain’t gonna lie, your part’s tricky. You got to find a way to place our explosives on the gasbags. Then get back out.”  
  
“I’ll be right behind you, Wanderer,” Deacon said. “My job, as always, will be to watch your back."  
  
“Any other details I should know?”  
  
“That’s all I got. This mission was thrown together fast. Now hang tight. Flight prep is gonna take a few more minutes.”  
  
The propellers was spinning in earnest now. She could feel the vertibird trembling as its blades picked up speed. Wanderer cast a final glance behind them, and saw Glory storming up to them.  
  
“Hey! You forgetting someone?” she shouted, her white hair whipping around in the wind of the propeller.  
  
“That’s a negative, Miss Angel of Death. You’re sitting this one out,” Deacon shouted back.  
  
“Don’t mess with me, Deacon. You guys’ll need back up.”  
  
“What we need is finesse: quiet in, quiet out. And no way you’re gonna convince me that you won’t go in guns blazing.”  
  
Glory’s nostrils flared. “You’re not benching me. No way. Those assholes hit our home. They killed family.”  
  
“I know. But save it for the Institute, okay? This is the only time you’re gonna get to prep everyone for the assault.”  
  
Tom called, “We’ve gotta go.”  
  
Glory gave Deacon one long, final glower before stepping back. “Fine. But you all come back in one piece, got it? Even you, Deacon.”  
  
“What do you mean, even me?”  
  
“Make ‘em pay, Wanderer.” Glory slapped the side of the vertibird. “See you three back at HQ.” She turned and walked away to watch their takeoff from a safe distance.  
  
“I think she meant ‘ _Especially_ you, Deacon.” Deacon said as he buckled himself into his seat.  “How’s it going up there, Tom?”  
  
“Uhh…. well something’s happening, that’s for sure.”  
  
“Dez said you could fly this thing,” Deacon said, an edge of nervousness coming into his voice.  
  
“Sure, sure. Read the manual cover to cover.”  
  
“The _manual_?”    
  
The vertibird rose unsteadily into the air. Tom hastily pressed a few buttons on the control panel. “So, uh… wheel’s up?”  
  
There was a loud screeching from beneath them, and the bird drifted away from the police station roof, listing heavily to the right.  
  
Wanderer’s feet slid over the deck. She clutched the overhead bar, trying to steady herself. Her stomach lurched as the vertibird lost altitude. She braced her shoulder against the side of the cabin and groaned, shutting her eyes tight to keep from getting sick.  
  
“We’re spinning. _Spinning_!” Deacon shouted, his voice cracking.  
  
“Oh man, hold it together.” Tom was gripping the pilot joystick tightly, his jaw clenched. He managed to set the craft on a steady course, and let out a relieved breath. “See? Just like falling off a log.”  
  
Wanderer relaxed slightly, leaning her head back against the cabin wall. Deacon was sitting straight-backed and tense in the rear seat, both his hands clenched into fists. “Dear God, we’re dead.”  
  
The vertibird listed again, banking dangerously to the left, and Wanderer’s feet slid out from under her. She was suspended over the Commonwealth, her grip on the overhead bar the only thing between her and the thousand-foot drop.  
  
Blood pounded in her ears as the ground sped by beneath her. Then the vertibird righted, and her feet touched solid ground again.  
  
“Jesus FUCK,” Deacon yelled, panic in his voice. “You almost killed Wanderer!”  
  
“Deacon, man, I’m trying. If you want to give it a whirl, I won’t stop you.”  
  
“No, no. You’re doing great, Tom. Just keep her a little more steady.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I got you.”  
  
Deacon turned toward Wanderer, and she could feel his glower beneath the sunglasses. He jabbed a finger at her. “And you, keep your arms and legs inside the _fucking_ vehicle at all times.”  
  
Wanderer laughed. Her heart was still pounding from her brief brush with death, giddiness washing over her as her adrenaline spiked. She whooped into the night. “Is this why people join the Brotherhood? For the vertibird rides and the sexy jumpsuits?”  
  
Tom snorted. “This shit must be a lot more fun from the backseat.”  
  
“It’s not, I assure you.” Deacon said.  
  
Wanderer turned back to look over the Commonwealth. She’d never felt like she did right now, flying several hundred feet above a ruined city, on an insane mission to take down one of the greatest powers in the Commonwealth with her friends at her back.  
  
It was moments like this—when she he didn’t miss her life before so keenly—that made her feel like she might be able to be happy in this new world. Her lost family was still a sharp, painful barb in her heart, but she’d stopped thinking about them with that soul-searing longing she’d felt after first leaving Vault 111. That bright pre-war life was beginning to seem like an impossible dream, a fantasy that had never been real.  
  
“We’re coming up on the blimp,” Tom said.    
  
“Moment of truth, pals. Wish me luck,” Deacon said. “Scabbard, this is Claymore. Requesting clearance.”  
  
There was only a beat of silence before the response came from the Prydwyn. “Claymore, you’re cleared for launch bay 3. Deck officer is requesting an update on the police station.”  
  
“Uh… hostiles eliminated.”  
  
“We have a visual on you, Claymore. Your docking port’s _not_ open.”  
  
“Got some technical difficulties. With the port thingy. Working on it… _Tom_?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, w-wh-which button is it? Uh. There.”  
  
“Claymore, you’re clear for approach.”  
  
“This is gonna be one hell of a ride,” Deacon said softly.  
  
The vertibird shuddered violently as something clamped onto them from above. Then they were lifted onto the dock.  
  
The three of them stared at each other in silence for a few minutes as the propellers slowly stopped rotating, and the vertibird went quiet. The Prydwyn deck was calm, the only traffic a few scribes working maintenance and a Paladin guarding the door.  
  
“We’re really doing this,” Wanderer said softly.  
  
“Don’t take too long in there. If anyone comes over here… I don’t know if I can fool them.” Tom said. He gave her a thumbs up. “Good luck!”  
  
Deacon hopped out of the bird, staggering as he landed on the deck. He flailed for a moment and clutched the metal railing. Wanderer scrambled out after him.  
  
“Jesus. Try not to topple over the side, alright?”  
  
“Don’t—” Deacon cleared his throat and let out a deep breath. “This is gonna be fun,” he said, in a less strained voice. He let go of the rail, straightened, and started walking down the dock.  His posture was impeccable, his stride confident. Some of the tension in her chest eased, watching him slip into his role so easily. This was just another job—they could do this.  
  
Their luck had held so far. She just hoped it lasted another night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience, everyone! I posted this chapter a lot later than I was hoping to. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to do weekly updates for all of the last 7 chapters, but I definitely plan to keep posting regularly—which means every other weekend for now, unless I get a few buffer chapters written.
> 
> Thanks again for all the kudos and great comments! You all are great :D


	24. Chapter 24

Deacon tried to focus on the soft _clank, clank, clank,_ of his footsteps on the metal deck. He kept his eyes on the door ahead. The sooner they got inside, the better.  Out here on the docks, any direction he looked was miles and miles of sky.

He heard Wanderer following behind him, watching him closely, no doubt. Wanderer was very familiar with his aversion to heights. It wasn't exactly one of the things he’d been subtle about… especially considering the whirlybird ride they’d just had.  

Thankfully, she hadn’t asked him, _are you okay?_ Deacon was definitely _not_ okay, and he didn’t know if he could withstand that little reminder of just how not-okay he was right now.

They made it to the door and he pulled it open, ducking inside the Prydwyn command deck.

It wasn’t any better in here.

Ahead of them was a cramped, narrow walkway. This was somehow _worse_ than the whirlybird ride. At least if the bird went down, he’d had a parachute and half a chance at not dying. If this ship went down, it was taking Deacon with it.  

A steady, deep mechanical hum echoed through the air craft. It saturated the air, filling Deacon’s head. He could feel the metal grating of the walkway vibrating under his feet, the railing vibrating beneath his hand, the ceiling vibrating over his head.

No, that had to be his imagination—right? The Prydwyn had been airborne for months; no way it could have been shaking that whole time like some ancient, rickety machine about to fall to pieces. He tried to focus on keeping his breathing even to diffuse the swelling panic in his chest.

This wasn’t any different than any other job. He’d stayed cool in the face of Courser assaults and possible dismemberment by Super Mutants. This was an undercover op, _his_ kind of op. He could do this, no problem.

Except he could _still_ feel the ship trembling.

“Hey, do you feel that?” he asked Wanderer.

“Feel what?”

“That… humming. In the floor.”

She glanced at him. “Yeah. I think we’re getting closer to the engines.”

Swell. “To be honest, I really wish you’d just said ‘no.’”

It was fine. No reason the airship would fall apart now just because Deacon was here.

Just because Deacon was here with enough explosives to level a building.

Yep, everything was _just_ fine.

“Deacon, are you with me?”

“Always.”

The Prydwyn gave a violent shudder, a loud clang echoing down the walkway. Deacon seized the railing with both hands, heart pounding.

“That’s normal,” Wanderer assured him. He had to hand it to her, she sounded pretty damn confident. But how would she know? She was just bullshitting to make him feel better. That’s what he’d have done in her shoes.

“Deacon?”

Deacon couldn’t make himself let go of the rail. He could barely even feel the knuckle-whitening grip he had on it.

“Don’t worry about me, I’m just freaking out a little.”

“Yeah, that’s what worries me.”

“Look, I can handle it. If I couldn’t, I wouldn’t be here… But maybe you take the lead on this one, huh?”

She nodded.

“Hey, does your chest feel tight? Is that, like, an altitude thing, or just me?”

“Deacon…” she said, giving him a concerned look.

Okay, that one _was_ just him. “Nevermind.”

He was letting the Prydwyn get inside his head. It was becoming difficult to keep his breathing steady. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears. It felt like a metal spring was coiling painfully around his heart.

Wanderer stepped closer to him and rested her hand over his. She squeezed his hand painfully tight. It took his mind off his pounding heart and spinning thoughts. The coil in his chest loosened a little.

“Let’s get moving,” he said, forcing himself to move away from the rail.

They worked their way deeper into the Prydwyn. Deacon focused on cataloging his surroundings to take his mind off… things. They’d passed only one patrol so far in this passageway. These walkways were too cramped for two people to pass comfortably; patrols would likely be stationed dockside and the main deck. They didn’t seem too worried about sabotage.

It was almost a shame this was the Prydwyn’s last hour. There was so _much_ he could learn about the Brotherhood just by snooping around this place for a day. Hacking a few terminals… chatting up a few officers… swiping some tech for Tom to dissect… he’d kinda miss spying on these bastards.

He and Wanderer paused at the ladder leading up to the Prywdyn main deck.

“I’ll be quick,” Wanderer said.

“No, don’t rush it. I’m _fine_. I mean it. I’ve never once blown an op. Not about to start now.”

“I know.” To her credit, she sounded like she believed it.

They climbed the ladder to the main deck. As soon as they breached the deck, Deacon felt a little more in his element. This space was more open, and there were people here— _lots_ of people. Some were milling around, having downtime, others were running drills, or walking patrols. Most importantly, there were lots of distractions and chances to blend in. _This_ was more his speed than the cramped, empty corridors.

Deacon fell back, shadowing Wanderer. He was better at fading into the background than she was, but he couldn’t help but be proud as he watched her bluff her way past the Brotherhood officers. His little spy was all grown up.

After a few minutes, Wanderer made her way toward the gas bags. Deacon took a brief stroll around the deck, tacking her movements above him. She disappeared into the gas bags, and he took up position lounging against a railing near the stairs, watching for anyone heading in Wanderer’s direction.

He knew that it was ideal to avoid people or conversations; the smoother this op went, the better. But a part of him was dying for someone to come along and question him. Conversation is what he craved most right now—a way to sink into his cover so he could separate himself from the fear that was still twisted tightly in his stomach.

He was almost relieved when he saw the engineer approaching.

“Hey there.”

The engineer eyed him warily. “Hey. You fly in with the Claymore?”

“Sure did.”

“Huh. You new? I haven’t seen you around the docks before.”

“New to the Prywdyn, sure. I’ve been running ground missions with the Brotherhood for a while.”

He gave Deacon an evaluating look. “So, a Commonwealth recruit, then. Not exactly in your element up here, are you?”

Shit, did he really look that spooked? If some joe schmo scribe could peg him as on edge, he was in worse shape than he’d thought.

Fine, he could adapt. “I’m not so sure this rust bucket is one hundred percent air worthy, is all,” he said, shrugging.

The engineer gave him a flat look. “Too bad there’s no one whose job it is to keep this airship flying.”

“Sure, sure. Not saying you’re bad at your job. Just… call me a skeptic, I guess.”

The engineer straightened indignantly and narrowed his eyes. His mouth curved into a cruel smile. “It’s a precarious situation, that’s true. ‘Specially in this area. One stray spark,” he snapped his fingers. Deacon jumped, giving him the response he was hoping for, “and the whole ship could go up in flames.”

Deacon didn’t have to fake the tightening of his jaw, or his hard swallow. But he actually didn’t feel so bad now; it felt almost like someone else’s fear. Watching the unkind spark in the engineer’s eye as he fell for Deacon’s lure… he was starting to feel like himself again.

He caught Wanderer moving toward the deck exit.

“Well, good talk. Better let you get back to… whatever it is you guys do to look busy.”

He could feel the engineer’s eyes on him as he walked away. Not watching with suspicion, just distaste. Deacon thought he heard him murmur _asshole_ under his breath as he walked away.

He caught up with Wanderer in the passage outside the main deck.

“Everything go okay?”

“We’re good. Let’s get out of here.”

They made their way down the passage, back toward the docks, taking care not to look hurried. A Knight pushed past them. He did a double take as he went by Wanderer, and Deacon braced himself for trouble.

“Hold, soldier. Have you checked in since you’ve landed?”

“Of course.”

Back on the main deck, everyone had been too preoccupied to challenge Wanderer’s story, but this guy seemed older and shrewder than the others they’d run into.

“Who is your commanding officer?”

“Knight Owens,” Wanderer said without missing a beat.

“Your squad name?”

Wanderer’s eyes flicked to Deacon for help, and he felt a sharp twist in his gut. If this were any other job, he’d have something for her. This time, he had nothing.

This was usually his moment; when he stepped in and talked fast and smoothed things over—whether he had intel or was bluffing his ass off. But right now he had _nothing._

_Think, think, think. Or you and Tom and Wanderer are all gonna die tonight._

“I asked your squad name, soldier,” the Knight said impatiently.

Wanderer’s eyes flicked back to the Knight. She slammed the palm of her hand into his nose.

As he reeled back in surprise, she drew Deliverer and shot him through the heart.

Deacon hastily caught the Knight under is arms as he fell backward and lowered him to the ground so he wouldn’t cause a racket.

“Jesus. You’re terrifying sometimes, you know that?”

Wanderer lowered her still-smoking gun. “He was going to blow our cover.”

“Let’s just shove him in a corner and hope for the best, I guess? Not a lot of options here.”

“Works for me. But we have to move fast; clock’s ticking now.”

Deacon dragged the body down the hallway and Wanderer followed, gun at the ready. The corridor design was obnoxiously efficient—no corners or hideaways or overlooked spaces. He was starting to worry they’d be caught red handed with the dead Knight when he spied a row of lockers along the wall.

He found a mostly empty one, and stuffed the body inside with Wanderer’s help. Once the body was shut inside, he leaned back against the locker, letting out a sigh of relief.

Wanderer holstered Deliverer. “So that’s taken care of. For now. Can we get out of here?”

Deacon shook his head. “Gotta deal with flight control so they can’t stop Tom from taking off.”

Wanderer’s eyes widened. “The control room’s exposed, Deacon. And we don’t know the timing of the patrols here.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“And you couldn’t have given me a heads up a little sooner? We don’t have a lot of time before this place blows.”

“Hey, I’m flying by the seat of my pants here, too. And, uh… I didn’t really think we’d make it this far without any confrontation.”

“There _was_ confrontation.”

“Sure, but… it’s been pretty mild, all things considered. And—fair warning—more often than not, that means the shit’s about to hit the fan.”

Wanderer gave a heavy sigh. But when she spoke again, the exasperation had gone from voice. “Lead the way.”

He did. He really hoped he got his mojo back after this job. As things were now, he was pretty useless. And Wanderer and Dez and everyone needed him at his best. Because if this crapshoot worked, the Institute was next.

He’d be back in form by then. He was just off tonight because of the heights thing, and the Railroad raising the stakes and…

And losing Drummer.

He shook his head violently. One of the perks of fast-paced ops like this was that they kept his mind off things he’d rather not be thinking about. Not tonight, it seemed.

They paused at the top of the stairs to the control room.

“Go get ‘em, Tiger.”

Wanderer drew Deliverer and shut her eyes for a moment, her jaw tense. He knew she hated situations like this—where the line between self-preservation and outright murder was uncomfortably thin. Deacon wasn’t so big on murder himself, but the Brotherhood had this coming. And at this point, either the Railroad or the Brotherhood was going down in flames. Easy choice.

Wanderer, he suspected, saw things a little differently. She’d do what she had to to protect her family, but this night was gonna eat at her, he could tell. She was so unflappable most of the time, he sometimes forgot she was relatively new to the whole killing people thing.   

“Do you want me to—”

She ignored him, striding down the stars and taking two shots. This time of night, there’d only be a couple people manning the controls. He waited a few seconds, then went after her.

Wanderer was already stashing the bodies when he reached the bottom of the steps.

“I don’t think they were armed,” she said, not looking at him. Her movements were steady, but he heard the fraught note in her voice.

Moments like this, he felt a little less proud of bringing her into the Railroad. Everyone in the Wasteland had their fair share of nasty encounters under their belt, but an agent’s life was on another level. You _intentionally_ put yourself in situations where you’d have to make tough calls, and sometimes none of your options were good ones. Sometimes, no matter what choice you made, it messed with your head.

Jobs like this one changed you. If it actually _worked,_ seeing that kind of destruction and knowing you’d been the one to pull the trigger… you didn’t walk away from that for free.

“Doesn’t matter. We couldn’t risk raising the alarm,” he told her. _And everyone on this ship will be dead by sunrise, anyway._ He didn’t say it out loud; he knew it wouldn’t make her feel any better. No doubt she was thinking it already.

She still didn’t meet his eyes, or nod, or give any sign that she’d heard him. “There’s blood. Should we try to clean it?”

“I’d rather you keep lookout. If someone’s close enough to notice the blood, they’ll see the bodies, and we’re made anyway.”

“On it.”

Okay, he was officially worried about her. Wanderer was tough, but… Deacon was very familiar with all the ways this life could fuck up a person. He didn’t want any of that to happen to her.

Wanderer covered the stairs, her gun drawn just in case. She looked back at him. “What are you looking at me for?”

“You’re just… really nice to look at.”

That got a slight smile out of her. “Get back to work.”

Deacon grinned back at her, then turned back to survey the controls panel. He found the coms line for Tinker Tom’s vertibird, and picked up the headset. He really hoped Tom hadn’t run into any resistance on the docks. He pressed down the com line for Tom’s bird.

“Good evening. This is DJ Feelgood and you're listening to _Sounds of the Commonwealth_.”

There was a pause. “…Deacon?”

“The one and only.”

“You’ve got no idea how glad I am to hear from you.”

Deacon could hear the rush of relief in Tom’s voice. He’d sounded really spooked. Not surprising, since he’d been sitting on his own in a stolen vertibird with no way of knowing whether Deacon and Wanderer were ever coming back.

“Okay, Tom. Ready to walk me through this thing?”

“That’s what I’m here for. You see launch bay 3? It should be lit up.”

“Got it.”

“Great, now turn off Control override, and—”

“Yeah, there’s about a hundred buttons on this thing, Tom. Not seeing any labels.”

“Okay, okay. Uh… tell me what you see.”

Deacon rubbed his eyes. He could feel the seconds slipping through his fingers as he did his best to describe the control panel Tom. It was slow going, but they had to lock down flight command if they were going to take off without interference. Even with Tom to guide him, Deacon was out of his depth here. Brotherhood techs could probably get the docks running again eventually, but it would buy them time.

“Deacon?” Wanderer called from the stairwell, her voice tense.

“I’m gonna need a few more minutes.”

“We’ve got less than fifteen until the bombs blow.”

Deacon shut his eyes tight as a wave of vertigo washed over him. They didn’t have time for any more hiccups—not if they were gonna get out of this alive.

_Focus._

His heart was hammering in his chest now, but he forced himself to be patient, and follow Tom’s directions. He only had one shot at this; they couldn’t afford for him to make a mistake.

 _“Deacon,”_ Wanderer said, more urgent now.

“Done, done!” He stepped away from the controls.

She was already heading up the stairs. “Come _on._ ”

He scrambled after her. “How long do we have?”

“Seven minutes.”

Deacon stumbled on the stairs. It was enough time to get clear. But _barely_. One more misstep, and the Prydwyn would be taking them down with it.

Wanderer reached the door to the docks first. She shot him an anxious look over her shoulder, and took a deep breath before stepping out into the open.

Deacon’s stomach was churning as he forced himself to keep an even, unhurried pace once they’d stepped out onto the docks. He fixed his eyes in between Wanderer’s shoulder blades, not trusting himself to look anywhere else.

He was waiting to hear someone shouting after them, _Hey, you, wait!,_ or an alarm, or _something_ , but they reach the vertibird without issue.

Wanderer climbed in board, then helped him up behind her.

“Move, move, move. We’re in,” Deacon said, before he’d even finished climbing on board.

“Right on.”

Tom hit a few buttons on the vertibird controls, and that loud, mechanical hum started up again as they were lowered from the Prydwyn dock.

Wanderer took the next to him and buckled in—Thank _God—_ instead of riding next to the mounted machine gun like some invincible pre-war action hero _._ She took her hand in his and held tight.

There was nothing around them now but sky.

_Focus on something else._

“We got out clean, just like I said we would.” His stomach still felt like it was doing flips, but voice his was steady.

“ _Mostly_ clean,” Wanderer said.

“Still counts. It’s not like we raised the—”

Before he could finish, a siren started blaring above them.

Tom half turned in his seat. “You had to jinx it, huh?”

“Shit. What’s taking you so long?”

“There’s a whole lot of mechanism for this. I’m going as fast as I can.”

Wanderer reached for her seat belt. “I’ll man the gun.”

Deacon took hold of her wrist. “Not so fast, hot shot. It’s gonna be a bumpy ride out of here. These things can take a lot of damage, and we won’t be in their range long.”

They were so _close_ to getting out of here alive. Way to close for him to let Wanderer do something reckless.

“So I’m supposed to do nothing?”

“Just… wait until we know for _sure_ we need a gun. _Come on_.” He hated how afraid he sounded. What was it about heights that stripped his guard down to the bones?

It made Wanderer relent, though. She sat back in her seat, shaking her head in frustration. She and Glory had that much in common: they _hated_ sitting still when chaos was erupting around them. But Deacon was something of an expert at biding his time.

The vertibird dropped from the tether. “We’re clear!” Tom shouted.

“Hang tight. We’re not home free yet.”

The three of them waited in tense silence as the chopper pulled away from the Prydwyn. Back on the docks, two vertibirds were dropping from their ports.

“Tom, step on it.”

“Man, I’m tying. I’m trying.”

Right. Tom was probably freaked out of his mind, too. Deacon tried a different tack. “And you’re making it look easy, boss.”

“Yeah, yeah. You don’t have to sugar coat it.”

“Are we out of blast range now?” Wanderer asked Tom.

 “Why? How long to we have?”

“Well—"

The bombs detonated in three loud, rapid bursts that made Deacon’s eardrums throb even from this distance.

“ _Shit_.”

The ship exploded in a flare of heat and light. Wanderer raised a hand to her face and turned away as the scalding air reached them.

Deacon’s shades shielded him from the worst of it, and he watched as the pursuing vertibirds were caught in the blast, one entirely consumed by the fiery blast. The other had pulled away from the dock, but it’s left propeller had caught fire, and it was already plummeting toward the ground.

The entire front half of the airship was engulfed in flames. The ship groaned and began to list downwards. Wastelanders would be able to see this spectacle for miles.

“Whoa. Now that’s a hell of a thing.”

Smaller explosions followed as the blaze spread throughout the Prywdyn. The three of them watched the destruction in silence, transfixed. Rippling explosions continued as the Prydwyn sank toward the earth with an eerie sluggishness.

“Tom? I think it’s coming toward us.”

“Yeah, I see it, Deacon. Kinda hard to miss the giant airship that’s, you know, also on _fire._ ”

“Okay, okay. Just looking out.”

Wanderer’s grip on his hand tightened as the Prywdyn careened toward them, and Deacon realized it had only _looked_ like it was moving slowly from a distance. It was actually falling really, really fast.

And it was gaining on them.

Tom was already banking sharply to the left. The remains of the Prydwyn crashed into the earth less than two hundred feet away from them with a furious roar. Deacon caught a glimpse of the airship before it disappeared in a flare of orange and red.

A cloud of dark smoke billowed out from the wreck, engulfing them. Wanderer started coughing. Tom was muttering an endless litany of _shit shit shit shit_ from the pilot’s seat as they lost visibility entirely.

This was decidedly a thousand times _worse_ than the ride to the Prydwyn, But, somehow, Deacon hadn’t reached the screaming-at-the-top-of-your-lungs low point that he’d hit on the ride from the Police Station.

The smoke cleared, and Deacon could see the great metal skeleton of the Prydwyn embedded in the beach, its core glowing white hot, flames rising from the wreck, and scattered smaller fires burning in the area nearby.

Tom stopped cursing. “Hey, look at that. We’re still alive.”

“Great job, buddy.”

“I need a drink.”

Tom peeled off from the wreck, taking them to a safe distance before he set them down on the beach.

“Everybody off. I gotta find some place to stash this beast.”

“What, here? We’re miles from HQ.”

“Look, this is as close as I can get. Unless you want to try to figure out how the parachutes work? ’Cuz there’s no way I’m trying a rooftop landing for the first time with you yelling in the back seat.”

“Yeah… right here’s great. Thanks, Tinker.”

“See you back at HQ.”

Deacon slid out of the vertibird. His knees gave out as he hit the ground, and he barely managed to catch himself from falling face-first onto the beach.

Wanderer crouched beside him, patting him on the back. “We did it, Deacon. We’re okay.”

“We’re fucking _nuts_.”

Deacon looked up across the water at the wreck. The flames from the Prydwyn were still an angry red, the smoke from its remains billowing into the air in a massive dark column.

Holy shit. They’d really pulled it off. 

Holy. _Shit._


End file.
